


a second collection (is totally necessary)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Alternate Universe - Civilian, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Betrayal, Brainwashing, Clairvoyance, Crack, Crossover, Demons, Dimensional Travel, Drunken Shenanigans, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hydra Grant Ward, Hydra Jemma Simmons, Immortals, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Metafiction, Opposing Sides, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Texts From Last Night, Undercover as a Couple, Ward x Simmons Summer, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 90
Words: 95,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another collection of responses to prompts I receive on tumblr, because the first was getting out of control. Mostly Ward/Simmons in nature. More tags will be added as they become relevant.</p><p>New on 8/15: 87 through 90. This collection is now complete; further drabbles will be posted to <em>a third collection (is charmingly excessive).</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Do you have a cuddle buddy yet?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: ""Do you have a cuddle buddy yet?" I honestly don't care who. I mean I think we all know Grant and Jemma need it after what you've put them through, but I'll take anyone."
> 
> meghan84 requested the same sentence.

“Do you have a cuddle buddy yet?”

Grant winces a little—partly for the way Simmons’ less-than-quiet voice aggravates the throbbing in his temples and partly for the phrasing—and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Excellent,” she says, and makes a pointed gesture towards his chest. “Take your shirt off, then.”

He bites the inside of his cheek as he complies. He’s not ashamed to admit, if only to himself, that it always gives him a little bit of a thrill to hear her say that. (And between the sheer number of scrapes Coulson gets them into, Grant’s role as the one who has to get them  _out_  of said scrapes, and Simmons’ position as team medic? She says it a  _lot_.)

One of these days, he promises himself, she’s gonna say it in non-professional circumstances.

Today, however, is not that day. Today is a day in which, through some bizarre confluence of events, their team and another mobile response team have been infected with—something. A virus. Grant’s kind of shaky on the details, what with having been unconscious when the infecting happened (fucking Asgardians; if he never hears another word about them and their fucking magic and advanced strength he will die a happy man), but the long and short of it is that they need skin contact.

Which is why Simmons is in the process of taking off  _her_  shirt, too, and he’d be inclined to think that maybe Asgardians aren’t so bad after all if not for the fact that she’s got some pretty spectacular bruising coming in along her left side.

“That looks painful,” he says, nodding at it, and she frowns.

“It is,” she says frankly. “And I can’t even take any sort of painkiller for it; there’s no telling how Earth medicine might interact with Asgardian… _nonsense_.”

He holds back a smile (because Simmons’ continuing refusal to accept the idea of magic is just as adorable as the rest of her), and sits back against the couch.

“So,” he says. “Cuddling? It’ll make you feel better, right?”

“It will make us  _both_  feel better,” she corrects, dropping her shirt to the floor, and it takes all of Grant’s considerable self-control to keep his eyes on hers instead of on her breasts. Her bra is a bright blue deliberately designed to draw the eye, which is just unfair, he thinks. “And how much did it hurt you to say the word cuddling?”

He has to laugh. “Not as much as I was expecting, actually.”

“Oh, good,” she says and, without further ado, drops into his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck, presses her cheek to his, and adds, “I’d hate to make this any more uncomfortable than it already is.”

He bites back on the urge to tell her that  _uncomfortable_  is not really the word that comes to mind, focusing instead on pulling her as close as possible—which, considering the way she’s straddling him, is pretty close. Her skin is warm under his hands and her breasts are pressed up against his chest, and he doesn’t know whether to curse the fact that she’s still wearing her bra or be really, really thankful for it.

Some of the pain that’s been spiking along his nerves since he regained consciousness is starting to ease, and he takes a deep breath.

“How long did you say this virus will take to pass?” he asks, keeping his voice low in deference to the fact that his mouth is right next to her ear.

Simmons rolls her shoulders a bit and nestles even closer. “Oh, at least an hour, I’d say.”

So. He’s going to spend at  _least_  an hour with a shirtless Simmons straddling him while they suffer under the effects of a virus whose symptoms are alleviated by skin contact.

How long, he wonders, will he be able to hold back on the observation that there are other, more effective ways of maintaining skin contact than  _cuddling_?

More importantly, what are the chances that she’d be amenable to investigating said ways?


	2. "Are you a parking ticket?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lindewen asked: ""Are you a parking ticket? Cause you've got fine written all over you." - Ward x Simmons, please??"

“Are you a parking ticket? ‘Cause you’ve got fine written all over you.”

Jemma nearly chokes on her tea for laughing, leaving it to Skye to respond to Ward’s bizarre question.

“How the heck did you just make a cheesy pick-up line sound like a  _threat_?” she demands, incredulous.

“Practice,” Ward deadpans, and passes Jemma a napkin. “You okay there, Simmons?”

“Fine,” Jemma says, clearing her throat. “I just—was not expecting that.” She gives him a sideways look. “Dare I ask what prompted it?”

“Skye thinks I need to practice picking women up,” he says, in a tone which might be better suited to voicing the words  _Skye thinks grass is purple_.

Jemma looks to Skye.

“What?” she asks defensively. “You saw what happened the last time he had to seduce someone for a mission!”

“Yes, I did,” Jemma agrees slowly. “He smiled and she, essentially, said  _take me, I’m yours_.”

“Exactly!” Skye exclaims, jabbing a finger at her. “He didn’t even have to try!”

“And that’s a bad thing?” she asks uncertainly.

“It is when our mark this time is a literal  _supermodel_ ,” Skye says. “He needs to bring his A-game.”

“I don’t know what’s more insulting,” Ward muses, pushing away from the counter. “That you think I’m incapable or seducing a supermodel, or that you honestly think lame pick-up lines are my A-game.”

“Do you even  _have_  an A-game?” Skye asks skeptically.

“Sure,” Ward shrugs, rounding the counter and heading for the door. “Just ask Simmons.” He drops a kiss on her cheek as he passes, adding to Skye, “Now  _she_  was a challenge.”

Skye gapes. Jemma flushes.

“That is  _not_  how you keep a secret,” she calls after him. He ignores her, and she sets down her tea, intending to give chase.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Skye says, catching her arm. “Not so fast! I have some  _serious_  questions for you, Jemma Simmons. And you are going to answer  _all of them_.”

Jemma scowls after Ward, reluctantly impressed by how smoothly he diverted Skye’s attention away from his seduction skills (or the potential lack thereof). Her retaliation, she promises herself, will be just as swift and twice as brutal.

“ _Simmons_.”

Starting with sharing absolutely every detail of their encounter.

“Of course,” she says, turning a pleasant smile on Skye. “What would you like to know?”


	3. "You need to sleep sometime"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: ""You need to sleep sometime." Biospecialist."

Grant has a lot to do and not much time to do it in, so as soon as he’s stashed Koenig’s body (in the store room; not the most secure of hiding spots, unfortunately, but the best he could do on short notice and with so little knowledge of the base), he goes looking for Jemma.

He finds her exactly where he expects to—in the kitchen, sitting at one of the tables and holding an ice pack to her head. Her eyes are closed, so he makes sure to scuff one foot along the floor as he crosses the room and comes to stand behind her. He doesn’t want to scare her.

“Hey,” he says, careful to keep his voice soft. Three days after the disaster at the Hub, her concussion is mostly gone, but the headache’s sticking around. “How you feeling?”

“Like a great bloody chunk of ceiling fell on me,” she grumbles, slumping back against him as he rests his hands on her shoulders. The ice pack is cold and wet against his stomach when she tips her head back to look at him. “What about you? How are your ribs?”

“Fine,” he says—lies. They hurt like a bitch, actually, between the cheap shot Koenig got in and the stress that lifting his corpse into that vent put on them, but he can’t tell her that. Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD, doesn’t admit to feeling pain, not ever. Not even to his girlfriend.

Actually,  _especially_  not to his girlfriend.

But this isn’t why he’s here. He’s running out of time; he needs to get straight to the point.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” he suggests, rubbing her shoulders lightly. He keeps it as gentle as possible, but she still winces a little when his hand reaches her neck, and he lets go of her regretfully. “You look like you could use it.”

She shakes her head, then winces again. “The others—”

“Are fine,” he interrupts. “They’ll call if anything changes, and if they do, I promise to wake you up.”

“I don’t know…”

“Jem, please,” he says. He smooths her hair away from her forehead, careful to avoid the bruises, and she scrunches her nose at him. “You look exhausted. Did you sleep at all while I was gone?”

“Not much,” she admits. “I was too worried.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” he says. “But you need to sleep sometime.” He raises his voice slightly over her imminent objection, adding, “If the others  _do_  end up needing us, you won’t be much help to them if you pass out from exhaustion halfway through the flight.”

“You may have a point,” she says, and sighs, twisting in her seat to face him. “You  _promise_  to wake me if anything happens?”

“Cross my heart,” he says, doing so.

“Very well, then,” she says. She drops the ice pack on the table and allows him to tug her to her feet. “Have you seen the quarters here, yet? They’re very nice.”

“I’m sure they are,” he agrees, because for an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere, this place is pretty clearly designed for comfort. “But if you don’t mind…”

“Yes?”

“I’d feel better if you slept on the Bus,” he says.

Jemma frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t know anything about this base,” he says. “If something happens—”

“Oh, Grant—”

“If something happens,” he repeats, louder. “I’d prefer for you to be in an environment I can control and predict.” He pauses. “And I don’t trust that Koenig guy. He’s so…”

“Cheerful?” Jemma offers dryly. “Friendly?”

“Weird,” he decides.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a fond smile tugging at her lips. He leans in and kisses her quickly, because he really can’t help himself.

“So,” he says. “Bus?”

“Oh, fine,” she sighs. “If it will make you feel better—”

“It will,” he confirms.

“Then yes, I’ll sleep on the Bus,” she says. “Even though there’s a perfectly nice and perfectly  _large_  bed in the quarters I was assigned when we arrived last night.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, and turns her towards the door. “Maybe we can check it out when the others get back.”

“That would be nice,” she says, a bit wistfully, then gives him a stern look. “Only for sleeping, mind. We’re neither of us in any condition for sex, at the moment.”

“No kidding,” he agrees, frowning at the splint on her left wrist. Every time he looks at it he gets hit with the overwhelming urge to kill Hand. Again.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” she says, nudging him gently. “I’m fine.” She pauses. “A bit turned around, perhaps. Do you remember which way the hangar is?”

“I do,” he confirms, and takes her (uninjured) hand. “Come on.”

He’s a little concerned by her confusion—she’s got a pretty good sense of direction, and she’s been at this base long enough that she shouldn’t be getting turned around anymore—but he’ll chalk it up to a combination of exhaustion and the lingering effects of her head injury. Still, he makes a mental note to have her checked out by a real doctor as soon as possible; nothing against Trip, but field-med training is  _not_  the same thing as med school.

It’s not far from the kitchen to the hangar, but it’s far enough that Jemma’s starting to stumble by the time they reach the Bus.

“Careful,” he says, steadying her as she trips at the bottom of the cargo ramp. “I’m in even less condition to carry you than I am for sex.”

She laughs a little, pressing her forehead against his upper arm briefly. “I’m sorry. I’m just…very tired.”

“I bet,” he says. “It’s been a long week.”

“Has it only been a week?” she asks.

“Less, actually,” he says, letting go of her hand so she can proceed him up the stairs. He wants to be in a position to catch her if she falls.

“It feels like so much longer,” she muses, rubbing at her eyes with her good hand. “And with all we’ve got ahead of us…”

She trails off as they reach the top of the stairs, and he takes her hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“None of that,” he says. “Just get some sleep, okay? Leave the worrying to me.”

“You know me better than that,” she says, amused, but allows him to steer her through the lounge. He aims her towards his bunk, mostly because he can, and she doesn’t protest (although she might not even notice; at this point, she looks to barely be keeping her eyes open). “I’m categorically incapable of not worrying.”

She’s slurring a little, and he shakes his head.

“Right now you’re categorically incapable of  _standing_ ,” he says, sliding the door to his bunk open. “So, seriously. I’ll take over on the worrying.”

She mumbles something incomprehensible as she drops onto his bed, barely pausing to kick off her shoes before she crawls under the covers. She’s asleep before he finishes pulling said covers over her shoulders, and he sighs, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her.

She doesn’t hear him, of course; the sedative he injected her with is strong enough that she probably won’t even twitch for at least twelve hours. He feels guilty about that, but not as guilty as he otherwise might—it’s obvious, from how quickly it hit her, that she really does need the sleep.

He studies her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, and thinks that maybe when she said she didn’t sleep  _much_  while he was gone, she actually meant that she didn’t sleep  _at all_.

He needs to get moving and he knows it. He’s short on time; if he wants to get Skye out of the base before she sees the results of her hack of the NSA satellites—before she sees footage of him leading the assault on the Fridge—he can’t afford to linger.

Still, he can’t quite bring himself to leave Jemma. Unless something, somewhere goes very, very right for him, this is the last time she’ll willingly sleep in his bed—the last time she’ll joke with him and hold his hand and smile at him so freely.

His plans for Skye are simple and straightforward: feed her a story about the team being in danger, take her to wherever the hard drive needs to be decrypted, and, once it’s unlocked, dump her somewhere semi-isolated. By the time she manages to contact the team, he’ll be long gone, with both the hard drive and Jemma safely in his possession.

He has contingency plans for every possible complication. He knows that he can play on Skye’s guilt over Jemma’s injuries (a direct result of the explosives they set in the Hub) to make sure she doesn’t get close enough to realize that Jemma’s been drugged. He knows he can easily insure that she remains unarmed (the better not to shoot him when she finally realizes the truth) and off-balance (so as not to spot any of the holes in his story, of which there are, admittedly, several).

He knows how to handle Skye. He knows how to get what he wants from her, and she’ll give it to him with a smile.

He’s got a plan for everything.

Except Jemma.

With her, he’s not working with a plan. It’s a new and uncomfortable feeling. He  _always_  has an exit strategy, a plan B (and C and D and so on)—some trick up his sleeve to guarantee that he comes out on top. He learned his lessons from Christian and Garrett and SHIELD itself, and he learned them well. He’s made a living out of turning every situation to his advantage, no matter how bad things look at the start.

But what advantage is there to take, here? He’s not delusional enough to believe that Jemma could ever be okay with him working for HYDRA; once she realizes who and what he is, she’ll never want to see him again. She sure as hell won’t want to  _date_  him.

HYDRA could program her into forgiving him—into forgetting that there’s anything to forgive—but he doesn’t want that. He’s seen the aftermath of brainwashing firsthand, and just the  _thought_  of Jemma looking at him with blank eyes and the eerie, empty smile of the happily compliant turns his stomach.

He won’t hurt her, and he won’t allow anyone else to hurt her, either. And since there’s not a chance in hell she’ll stay with him willingly…He can’t keep her. No matter what he does, he can’t keep her.

But he can’t leave her behind, either.

He leans in, ignoring the painful pull on his ribs, and presses a kiss to her forehead even as his watch beeps.

His time’s up.


	4. S2 crack!fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "S2 crack! The crackiest crack to ever crack. With extra crack please. Bonuses for Lorenzos, the word the, hammocks and or cookies."

The first time Ward shows up during one of her missions,Jemma is scared out of her wits.

The fifth time, she’s beginning to get annoyed.

And by the twentieth time, she doesn’t even bother to flinch anymore.

“Really?” she sighs when she looks up from her lunch to find him sliding into the seat across from her. “This isn’t even dangerous. I’m  _literally_  running errands.”

“There’s a price on your head,” he says mildly, and steals one of her chips. “Errands are dangerous.”

“There is  _not_  a price on my head,” she counters, rolling her eyes. “It’s a half-hearted BOLO at most.”

“And that doesn’t scare you?” he asks, reaching for her plate again.

“Not as much as your table manners do,” she asserts, and tugs her plate away. “Get your own lunch.”

“Fine,” he says, and waves over the waitress. “But half of that  _is_  mine, you know.”

“Oh, not this again,” she mutters. She waits impatiently as he orders his lunch, and as soon as the waitress leaves, she points her fork at him. “We are  _not_  married.”

“Really?” he asks skeptically. “Because I think our joint bank account, this ring on my finger, and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts would beg to differ.”

“We  _used_  to be married,” she allows. “But we aren’t any longer.” Then she pauses. “Wait, whose ring is that? That’s not your ring.”

“I know,” he says, looking down at it mournfully. “But you still haven’t given me back  _mine_ , so I had to make do.”

“I’ve told you, you can have your ring as soon as you lock yourself back in the Vault,” she says, eyeing the ring warily. “Did you honestly go out and buy another wedding ring?”

He clears his throat. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“ _Grant_ ,” she snaps, and curses herself when he grins. Someday, she swears, she’s going to stop slipping on his name. In the meantime, the best way to deal with it is to move past it. “Did you  _steal_ that ring?”

“Steal is a strong word,” he claims. “I…borrowed it. From someone who doesn’t need it anymore.”

She covers her eyes. “Grant, if you tell me you stole that from a dead man…”

“I did not steal this from a dead man,” he says reassuringly (and unconvincingly). Then, “And what do you mean, we’re not married any longer? We’re definitely still married.”

She drops her hand to glare at him. “We are  _not_.”

“Yeah, we are,” he says, and leans back as the waitress sets his plate in front of him. “Thank you. Anyway, we’re both still alive, right? And we swore ‘til death do us part, so…clearly, we’re still married.”

“Okay, no,” she says. “There was definitely a clause in there about one of the parties becoming a murdering traitor.”

“No, there wasn’t,” he disagrees, and takes a pointed bite of his sandwich.

“It was  _implied_ ,” she hisses. “‘Til death or one of us becomes a  _murdering traitor_  do us part!”

“You really need to let that go,” he says, around a mouthful. “The whole murdering traitor thing—it’s old news.”

“You ruined an op for us  _last week_ ,” she reminds him, frustrated.

“Okay, that one was not my fault,” he defends. “How was I supposed to know Coulson was after the package? I mean, really, guy’s the Director of a treasonous secret agency. You’d think he’d have better things to do than collect trading cards.”

She has both finished her lunch and reached the end of her tolerance with him, so she doesn’t bother to reply. She simply picks up her handbag, digs out a few dollars for a tip, drops them on the table, and stands.

“I’m leaving now,” she says unnecessarily. “Don’t follow me and do  _not_  drop in on me again. Seriously. Leave me alone.”

But it’s mostly rote by now, and they both know it.

“Don’t take Eighth Street,” he advises cheerfully. “It’s crawling with cops.”

She pauses. She shouldn’t ask. She  _knows_  she shouldn’t ask. She—

“Why?”

—damn it. She asked.

“Someone killed a guy or something,” he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

She sighs and, as she walks away, pulls out her phone to call Coulson.

“Sir?…Yes, I’m fine…Just on my way to my next stop now…No, it’s all right. But you might want to send a team to Eighth Street. I think Ward’s been active in the area.”


	5. S2 crack!fic: "I'm just here for the chocolate"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: ""I don't love you, I'm just here for the chocolate." And I'd like it for Ward and Simmons. Thanks!"
> 
> Follows from previous chapter.

Grant figures there’s a fifty-fifty chance of his invitation being entirely ignored, so he’s beyond pleased when he hears a knock at his door at exactly seven o’clock.

“I don’t love you,” Jemma says without preamble as she sweeps past him. “I’m just here for the chocolate.”

He uses the excuse of closing and locking the door to hide his smile, and makes sure to keep a suitably understanding expression as he faces her again.

“Fair enough,” he says, rather than bringing up how a) she’s completely capable of buying her own chocolate and b) there’s sure to be  _some_  kind of event happening at the Playground right now, since Skye is very much the type to insist on a team party to lift spirits. If Jemma isn’t ready to accept that she’s here because she wants to be—if she still feels the need to hide behind excuses—he’s perfectly willing to accommodate her.

He’s just glad she’s here. It’s a sign of how much progress they’re making; this time last year, she would have laughed in his face if he’d invited her over for a date on Valentine’s Day.

He’s wearing her down—or maybe she’s wearing  _him_  down, it’s hard to say. Either way, she’s here and she’s obviously gone to at least a  _little_  trouble to look nice, wearing a red dress and the necklace he got her for their second anniversary. That’s an encouraging sign, too.

Maybe she doesn’t love him right now, but they’ll get there (again) eventually. It’ll just take patience, and Grant’s got plenty of that.

If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s the long game.


	6. S2 crack!fic: 18 months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "If you're still accepting time stamp prompts, could I request eighteen months after that crackfic please?"
> 
> Follows from previous two chapters.

Jemma is more than tired. She’s exhausted. She’s sick of basically everything—the interpersonal drama at the Playground, HYDRA’s unending schemes, Coulson’s constant, unrealistic expectation that she draw a miracle out of her pocket every time he needs one—and everyone. She’s perhaps two days away from quitting, changing her name, and moving to Brazil.

In short, she needs a holiday.

Once the most recent problem of the week (a twisted HYDRA plot involving puppetry, mouse traps, and enough poor-quality coffee to supply every police station in the southern United States) is wrapped up, Jemma packs a bag, drops a (somewhat scathing) note on Coulson’s desk, and leaves the Playground. She walks two miles to a nearby public park, takes a seat on a bench, and waits.

Less than ten minutes later, Grant drops down next to her.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, nodding at her bag as he slings an arm around her shoulders.

“Yes,” she says. “And you’re coming with me.”

He stills as she leans against him, and no wonder. As the months have passed, he’s slowly been increasing their level of physical contact. She’s allowed it—to a point—but she’s never reciprocated.

In a week or two, she’s sure to regret this, but right now she’s exhausted, frustrated, and she misses her husband. So bugger morals and sides and right and wrong. She’s going on holiday and she’s taking Grant with her.

“Am I?” he asks, sounding delighted. He tightens his grip on her slightly, as though expecting her to try and shove him away. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t care,” she says. “Somewhere sunny and warm. Somewhere no one can find us.”

“I can do that,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. Then he pauses. “Did you tell the team you were leaving?”

“I left a note.”

He makes an amused noise. “You know they’re gonna think I kidnapped you again, right?”

“Probably,” she agrees. “But at this point their opinion of you literally  _cannot_  get any lower, so…”

“Fair point,” he says. “Okay, give me an hour to get some things in order, and we can go.”

He makes no move to stand, however, and she nudges him. “Would that hour be occurring today?”

“What, I can’t revel in my victory for a minute?” he asks, all wounded innocence.

“Revel later,” she advises, and gives him a shove. “I want to be gone before the others find my note.”

“Work, work,” he teases, and stands. Then he hesitates, staring down at her with consideration. “You know, you’re kind of tempting fate here.”

“Oh?” she asks. “How so?”

“Well, you’re pretty close to the Playground,” he points out. “If the others start looking for you, you won’t be hard to find.”

True enough. “I suppose you have a suggestion?”

“Funny you should ask,” he says, and holds out a hand. “Come with me. I can show you my new place; you’ll love it.”

“Are you asking because you’re expecting me to disappear as soon as you go?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” he says shamelessly. “I don’t want you to have a chance to change your mind.”

“I won’t,” she assures him. But it’s a cold day and she didn’t really want to spend an hour sitting on this bench anyway, so she takes his hand and lets him pull her up. “All right, then, Grant. Lead the way.”


	7. HYDRA Jemma and Ward go rogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blacklacesslytherin asked: "I love your AUs! Do you think you could do something where Biospecialist was HYDRA but then went rogue?"

Sneaking into the hospital is so easy that it doesn’t really deserve the term. There’s no one on guard, no obvious security presence, and the room—when they reach it—is deserted, aside from the person they’re there to see.

Really, all they have to do is walk in.

“Sloppy,” Jemma says, disapproving, as she snags the chart from the end of the bed. “And they’ve left him without any visitors, as well—that’s just unkind.”

“He’s in a coma, Jem,” Grant reminds her lightly. “He doesn’t know the difference.”

“Actually, there’s some debate about that,” she tells him, even as she flips through the chart. “And even putting that aside, they could at the very least leave someone to explain things to him when he wakes.”

It’s been two weeks; at this point, Grant seriously doubts that anyone is expecting Fitz to wake from his coma. Still, he knows better than to say so to Jemma.

“They’re being hunted,” he reminds her instead. “Between HYDRA, that Talbot guy, and—well—us…” He shrugs. “They’re low on resources and manpower and they think Fitz is safe where he is. I’m sure they’ll be here the second he shows signs of waking.”

“Security through obscurity,” Jemma tsks, but she looks mollified. “As though a false name could hide him from  _me_.”

“I doubt you’re the one they’re hiding him from,” he says. It looks like they’re gonna be here for a while, so he drops into one of the visitor’s chairs, propping his legs on the end of Fitz’s bed. “They probably don’t think you’re a threat to him.”

“They’re right about that, at least,” she sighs, and chews on her lip as she scans his chart. “This doesn’t look good, darling.”

“How bad is it?”

“He was brutally beaten and took several blows to the head,” she says. “They can’t conclusively judge how bad the damage was until he wakes, but as it is—the scans have not been encouraging.” She looks near tears. “It’s not a question of  _whether_  he has brain damage, just how severe it is.”

Well, fuck.

“I’m sorry, Jem,” he says sincerely. He knows what Fitz means to her—has always known, even if he hasn’t always been as understanding about it as he is these days—and the fact that they ended up on opposite sides after the HYDRA shake-up didn’t change anything. “What do you wanna do about it?”

That they’ll be taking revenge against HYDRA for this goes without saying. They both made it very clear, at the beginning, that Fitz was off-limits. Their orders were ignored, so—like Fitz’s brain damage—it’s just a matter of how severe their retaliation will be.

Jemma returns the chart to its place and perches on the edge of Fitz’s bed, reaching out to smooth a hand along his cheek. It takes serious effort for Grant to remain in place instead of getting up and pulling her into his arms—he hates to see her so sad—but he manages.

“Look what they’ve done to you,” she says quietly to Fitz. He’s in pretty terrible shape; even aside from the respirator and the various other machines he’s connected to, he’s covered in bruises and bandages. Not to mention the fact that half of his head’s been shaved.

Even  _Grant_  is angry just looking at him; this must be killing Jemma.

“Jemma?” he prompts gently.

When she turns away from Fitz to look at him, her eyes are glossy with unshed tears, but her face is set.

“We’re going to burn HYDRA to the ground,” she says, slowly and deliberately. “And we are going to destroy every member of it so thoroughly that their great-great  _grandchildren_  will flinch to hear our names.”

He smiles. He does love it when she gets vicious. “With pleasure.”


	8. "Come on, just hit me!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: ""Come on, just hit me!" Biospecialist!"
> 
> (Takes place in the same universe as previous drabble, but--as that one takes place after this--you shouldn't need to read that to understand this.)

“Come  _on_ ,” Jemma bites out, well past the point of patience. “Just hit me!”

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Grant says flatly, for perhaps the hundredth time.

“We agreed—”

“We  _agreed_  to make Skye  _think_  that I hurt you,” he interrupts. “You didn’t say anything about actually doing it. If you had, I’d’ve told you to come up with another plan.”

“Which is  _precisely_  why I didn’t tell you,” she says. “And now it’s too late to draw up an entirely new one, so I’m afraid you’ve no choice. Hit me.”

“I am  _not_  going to hit you.”

“We’ve already discussed this, Grant,” she says. “This is our best hope for getting what we need from Skye without breaking my cover—which I will  _remind_  you is only necessary because you’ve completely broken yours.”

He throws his hands up. “What was I supposed to do?” He affects the monotone voice he always uses when mimicking his cover, “No, Skye, you  _shouldn’t_  hack the NSA, even though it would make tracking those prisoners twenty times easier. Why not? Well, I can’t actually tell you, but trust me, I’ve got a good reason.”

“Exactly,” she says, jabbing a finger at him. “You were short on options and backed into a corner, much as we are now. You did the only thing you could and let her hack the NSA, even though it meant you had to cross off Koenig and kidnap her. Now, you’ll do the only thing you can and hit me in order to make our deception convincing, even though you—”

“I’m not gonna hit you.”

“Why are you being so  _squeamish_  about this?” she demands, beyond frustrated. It’s not as though she’s looking  _forward_  to being struck, but if he would stop whinging and just get on with it they could’ve been done by now. Skye will be regaining consciousness soon; they need to get this over with. “You’ve killed  _three_  people today, one little punch—”

“I didn’t  _love_  any of those people,” he snaps, appearing equally frustrated. “I made a promise—”

“Oh,  _enough_  with the promises,” she says. “I appreciate that you don’t want to hurt me, darling, I truly do. But causing me a little bit of pain now will save us  _both_  quite a lot of pain later. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

“Jem,” he says, and there’s a look in his eyes more suited to his cover. He’s not often this solemn when he’s being himself. “I don’t know if I can.”

She sighs, her anger dissipating like so much smoke, and closes the distance her frustrated pacing caused between them in order to wrap her arms around his neck.

“I know, darling,” she says, as he rests his forehead against hers. “I know this is a sensitive topic, and I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t vital for the success of our plan.”

Violence is Grant’s bread and butter. It is not only his profession but one of his favorite pastimes, and he makes no apology for it. Still, she knew he would balk at the thought of harming  _her_. He’s caused her pain before, of course, but only in the most delicious of ways—and there is nothing enjoyable about striking her in the face.

His childhood left its mark on him, however much he denies it. Violence and lying and manipulation come as easily to him as breathing, and the only time he feels even the slightest regret for it is when he must turn those skills against the people he cares about. (Which is, admittedly, a very short list.)

In lieu of a response, he kisses her. He’s stalling, but she allows it, hoping it will help him focus. He’s emotionally compromised right now, and while it’s flattering, it’s also highly inconvenient.

His hands are deliberately gentle on her waist, but there’s an edge of anger to the kiss, which she regrets. She wishes she could be delicate with this, gently coax him into it and let him have as much time as he needs to prepare, but unfortunately, it’s just not possible.

The dendrotoxin’s effects will be wearing off soon, and Jemma needs time to prepare for her own part in this deception. She’s much less practiced at playing a role than Grant is; the cover she uses in SHIELD is familiar and easy like an old jumper, and the new spin she needs to put on it—the spin of having been terrorized by Grant while Skye was unconscious—will take every ounce of her (frankly lacking) skill to pull off.

So, regretfully, she must force his hand.

“Our only other option,” she says, breaking the kiss. “Is to ask Deathlok to do it instead.”

“No,” Grant says at once, rearing back. His hands clamp down on her waist as though he’s expecting her to go fetch their reluctant comrade this very second, and she has to work to hold back a smile. It will serve their purposes very well if his grip bruises her. “We can’t trust him not to take it too far.”

“Precisely,” she agrees. “This is the only way, Grant.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “Jemma—”

“You can make it up to me when this is all over,” she promises. “We’ll go away together, just the two of us. How does that sound, hmm? A nice holiday to recover from this whole mess.”

“It’ll take more than mai-tais and sunshine to fix this clusterfuck, Jem,” he says.

“You, me, a private suite on the water,” she lists, scratching her nails lightly along the back of his neck. “A third honeymoon. Won’t that be lovely?”

“Fourth,” he corrects, obviously amused despite himself. “You’re forgetting Bangkok.”

"How many times do I have to tell you, Bangkok does  _not_  count—”

“Come on, I took you to a nice hotel, we saw the sights—”

“If by  _sights_  you mean the inside of a jail cell—”

“Hey, that cell had ambiance—”

“Oh, yes, and the corpses of the three cellmates you killed added such romance—”

“I wasn’t going to let them hurt you,” he says, which is  _not_  the next line in the familiar exchange. His voice has gone dark, as have his eyes, and his fingers flex on her waist. “I made a promise.”

“I know you did, love,” she says softly. “And you’ve kept it admirably.”

“You’re asking me to break it.”

“I’m asking you to  _keep_  it,” she counters. “If we fail, I’ll receive far worse than a single punch.” She kisses him, lightly, and is pleased by the resignation she sees in his eyes when she draws back. “Help me avoid the price of failure, Grant. Please.”

He sighs heavily and steps back, out of her reach.

“All right,” he says. His eyes are still dark, and she has the passing thought that he’ll have no trouble selling this act to Skye if he keeps that look on his face. “But I’m gonna make it up to you, Jem. I’m gonna spend  _weeks_  making it up to you, and you’re not gonna complain.”

“I won’t,” she says. “I promise.”

“We’ll go on vacation,” he says. “I’m going to kill every man who looks at you, and you’re not gonna say a single word about needing to keep a low profile or about my tendency to overreact.”

“That sounds fair,” she agrees, making a mental note to do some pre-emptive damage control before they go on holiday. She’ll get Lorenzo on it; he does so love cleaning up the trail of bodies Grant inevitably leaves in his wake.

“I’m going to make you beg before I touch you,” he continues. “And then I’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop. And you’re not gonna complain about wanting a turn to touch me.”

She draws a little  _x_  over her (now racing) heart. It has been far, far too long since they had the opportunity to truly enjoy one another. And she so enjoys it when he gets demanding. She’s looking forward to their holiday already.

“You may make it up to me to your heart’s content,” she promises. “But only if you do this for me now.”

“Okay,” he says, swallowing convulsively. He nods once, resolved. “Okay.”

“Good,” she smiles. She’s not looking forward to this, but she’s glad to have finally brought him on board, and she doesn’t want to give him cause to change his mind again by appearing apprehensive. “Now. Hit me.”


	9. Under-reacting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "Under-reacting Biospecialist! =D"

Grant Ward has a lot of regrets.

Trying to burn down his parents’ house without disabling the outdoor security system first, that’s a big one. (It’s what got him caught and landed him in juvie.) Taking that left turn in Borås, that’s another. The cover he used in Tbilisi—there are no words for how much he regrets  _that_  clusterfuck.

But he’s never regretted anything as much as he regrets the entire sequence of events that led him to this moment: being cornered into kidnapping his own girlfriend.

He actually had a plan for how to break the whole HYDRA thing to her. It was a good one. He’s been playing the long game since before their first kiss—since the moment he realized that he wanted her, he’s been setting the foundation of how to get her in love with and accepting of the real him.

He didn’t count on Captain fucking America shining the light on HYDRA for the whole world to see. He definitely didn’t count on being forced back onto the team less than a week after he left it for what he thought was for good.

(He has to admit to being a little embarrassed by not predicting that Skye would have encrypted the hard drive. But in his defense, he was a little distracted at the time, what with trying to keep Fitz from having a breakdown over Jemma’s unknown status while simultaneously attempting to come up with a plan for how to infiltrate the Hub without getting them all killed.)

Now his plan is beyond screwed, as, most likely, is his relationship. There’s really not any way to come back from having to shoot your girlfriend (even with an ICER) when she walks in on you hiding the body of a man you’ve just killed.

He’s still gonna try, of course—hence his current position, sitting on the coffee table in the lounge while Jemma is stretched out on the couch—but he’s not expecting much success.

He’s worried (and, honestly, angry) enough that he’s lost track of his internal clock, so he has no idea how long it is before Jemma stirs. It’s long enough that Skye—locked in the Cage until she’s feeling a little more cooperative—has stopped banging on the walls, at least. (He’s pretty sure that last bang he heard was her trying to break the door down with one of the chairs. Luckily, the Cage is built to withstand that kind of thing.)

Jemma is always adorable when she’s just waking up, and apparently regaining consciousness after being hit with a dendrotoxin bullet is no exception. He keeps his hands braced on either side of him through sheer force of will; he wants so badly to touch her, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she shoves him away. Better not to risk it.

He knows the exact moment the memory of what happened hits her; one second she’s snuggling sleepily into the couch, the next she stills completely. She doesn’t open her eyes, but her hand fists in the throw pillow beneath her cheek.

“Grant,” she says, voice carefully even.

“Jemma,” he says. The wood of the coffee table bites into his palms.

“Did you shoot me?” she asks.

She literally stood there (pale and wide-eyed and stunned; not a good look for her) and watched him do it. There’s no point in lying. “Yep.”

“I thought so,” she sighs, and opens her eyes. She grimaces a little, pressing a hand to her forehead, and sits up slowly. “Ugh. Those ICER rounds really are unpleasant, aren’t they.”

“They pack a punch, yeah,” he agrees, watching her carefully. She’s still a little pale, and it looks like he managed to smudge some of Koenig’s blood on her neck in the process of carrying her up here (oops), but otherwise she looks okay. Calm.

“So,” she sighs, swinging her legs off the couch and sitting forward to pin him with a look. “You’re HYDRA?”

“I am,” he says.

“For how long?”

Depends on how you look at it, really. “Years.”

“I see,” she says. “And you killed Eric?”

“Yep,” he says. Then, figuring he might as well get the whole thing over with, he adds, “And kidnapped Skye. She’s in the Cage.”

Jemma glances in the direction of the hall leading to the Cage, frowning slightly.

“Did you hurt her?” she asks.

“Not much,” he says. “She went crazy when she saw you passed out there and I had to get a little mean.” He shrugs. “She’ll be fine.”

“Good,” she says, drumming her fingers on her knee.

She’s taking this much more calmly than he was expecting. Skye called him a Nazi, a serial killer, and a fuckface all in the first five seconds after realizing he was a traitor. She also tried to hit him. Twice.

Jemma’s just…sitting there.

The silence stretches out, surprisingly not awkward, and it leaves him feeling a little off-balance. Skye’s tantrum he knew how to deal with. He’s got no clue how to handle Jemma’s weird serenity. He can’t work her if she doesn’t give him anything to work  _with_.

“So, what next?” she asks finally. “I presume you have some manner of nefarious plan?”

“That hard drive Skye downloaded all of the Bus’ files onto is encrypted,” he says. “She’s gonna decrypt it for me.”

“Is she?” Jemma asks skeptically.

“Eventually,” he says with a smile. She gives him an odd look, and he quickly blanks his face. He needs to take it easy on the transition between his cover and the real him, give her some time to acclimate, and nice guy Grant Ward doesn’t smile like that—sharp and vicious.

She’s taking this weirdly well. He doesn’t want to ruin it by being too much himself.

“If you say so,” she says. “And then what?”

“Then I’ll dump her somewhere,” he says, making a split-second decision. He’d been flirting with the idea of crossing Skye off, but it’s not likely to get him anything but more trouble. “Leave her to find her way back to the team while I get the hard drive back to Garrett.”

If she’s surprised at the mention of Garrett, she doesn’t show it. (So he’s gonna go with the assumption that she’s not surprised; Jemma’s not great at hiding her emotions, although she’s doing a pretty good job of it right now.)

“And me?” she asks.

“Well, I haven’t decided yet,” he admits honestly. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That’s nice to hear,” she says. “But?”

“But I’m not gonna let you go, either,” he says. It’s probably a little blunter than he should be, but there’s no point in creeping around the subject. She’s not leaving him. Period. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining HYDRA?”

“No,” she agrees. “I wouldn’t.”

Well, it was worth a shot.

“Then I guess we’re at an impasse,” he says.

She’s still so calm, and he can’t resist the urge to touch her anymore, so he moves from the coffee table to sit next to her on the couch. She makes no attempt to shift away from him—in fact, when he reaches out to brush her hair away from her face, she leans into his touch the same way she always does.

Not that he’s complaining, but he’s starting to wonder if maybe that ICER round scrambled her brain. Has anyone tested the effects of dendrotoxin on geniuses?

“Feeling okay?” he asks.

“I’ve a slight headache,” she says. “Presumably from the dendrotoxin. But that’s all. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he says, and—watching her face closely—rests his hand on her thigh. She doesn’t shove him away—she doesn’t even tense.

This is weird.

“I’m gonna give Skye a few more hours to calm down before I force the decryption issue,” he says casually, tapping his fingers on Jemma’s thigh. “In the meantime, you wanna help me change? Think I got some of Koenig’s blood on my jeans.”

He’s still watching her carefully, and…she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t tense. She frowns a little, but it’s her scolding frown—her  _you should take better care of yourself, Grant_  frown—not anything really unhappy.

He just made extremely casual reference to killing an ally who gave them shelter in their time of desperate need, and she barely even blinked. What the hell?

“Of course,” she says. “I do hope you didn’t do yourself any further harm putting him in that vent.” She gives him that frown again. “Couldn’t you have found somewhere to hide him that didn’t involve lifting that much dead weight above your head? You’ve two cracked ribs, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t,” he promises automatically, because—what the  _hell_? “And I’m pretty sure I didn’t make them worse.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” she says tartly, and stands. “Come along, then. Once I help you change I want another look at your ribs.”

He lets her tug him to his feet, dazed and a little confused. If he’d had to guess what kind of reaction Jemma would have to catching him in the act of stashing a corpse, getting annoyed about his cracked ribs would  _not_  have made the list. At all.

She keeps a hold of his hand as they walk the short distance to his bunk, and Grant decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Jemma’s not gonna throw a fit over his loyalties, he’s definitely not complaining.

Things are looking up.


	10. "Did it hurt? ...When you fell from Heaven?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: "Woooooooo! (No one is going to understand what that is in reference to. But we do, Amy. We know.) And in the spirit of things... 28: Biospecialist "Did it hurt? ...When you fell from Heaven?""

“Did it hurt?”

Jemma startles so hard she nearly falls right off of her barstool. In fact, it’s only the warm and unfortunately familiar hand (to match the unfortunately familiar voice) at her elbow that keeps her in her seat.

As soon as she’s sure of her balance, she yanks her arm away and swivels on the stool to face Ward in one smooth motion. He’s grown his beard in again since the last time she saw him, and combined with the leather jacket and black jeans he’s sporting, he’s looking particularly disreputable.

(And also  _delicious_ , much to her dismay. She’d hoped that him turning out to be evil would end her embarrassing crush on him—the whole mess was in desperate need of a silver lining, and that would’ve been a lovely one—but, horrifyingly, it only seems to have made it worse.)

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

“Manners, Simmons,” he scolds, leaning against the bar next to her. He’s close enough that she can smell his cologne, and she hates herself a little for not moving back—for not  _wanting_  to move back. “You should answer my question before you ask one of your own.”

 _Don’t make a scene_. Those are her orders for this mission—sit at the bar, sip at her drink, and don’t make a scene.

So instead of storming away and/or pouring her drink over his head, she forces a smile and asks, through gritted teeth, “What was your question?”

“I asked, did it hurt,” he says.

“…Did what hurt?” she asks, a touch incredulously. He  _cannot_  be going where she thinks he’s going with this.

He is. “When you fell from Heaven?”

She stares at him, speechless. He stares back, face earnest.

“I need another drink,” she decides, swiveling back to face the bar. Before she can motion to the bartender, however, Ward’s hand lands on hers, keeping it still.

“Oh, you don’t wanna do that,” he says, leaning in close. “Getting drunk on an op? Really unprofessional. Not to mention dangerous.”

Her blood runs cold, because if Ward knows why she’s here—if he knows what they’re up to—then they’re all in serious trouble.

She tries to play it off. “Who says I’m on an op? Maybe I’m just taking a night off.”

Her voice is even, which is lovely. She really is getting better at lying—her time at HYDRA did a lot for those skills.

“Dressed like that?” Ward asks, skeptical. He gives her a slow once-over, and she wishes she could blame her flush on anger. “Come on, Simmons.”

She tries to tug her hand out from under his, but he somehow manages to turn the motion into lacing his fingers with hers, and his grip is like steel. She won’t be breaking it anytime soon.

Her other hand is free, but there’s not much she can do without making a scene. And she  _can’t_  make a scene.

“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” she asks instead.

“Absolutely nothing,” he says, ghosting his free hand along her bare thigh. “It’s a great look for you. Just not your usual style.”

“What would  _you_  know about my  _usual style_?” she demands, doing her best to ignore the goosebumps that spring up in the wake of his touch. She doesn’t hold out much hope that he’ll have the courtesy to do the same.

“We lived together for six months,” he points out.

“A year ago,” she counters. “A lot can change in a year. And I was hardly going to dress for clubbing while we were on the Bus, now was I? It would’ve been unprofessional.”

“True,” he admits. “But still.” He tugs lightly on the hem of her skirt (such as it is), and she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying not to react. “I’ve never seen you wear a skirt before. I would’ve bet you didn’t even own any.”

“Well, I do,” she says. “As you can see.”

It’s a half-truth. She does own skirts, but this isn’t one of them. Ward’s right; it’s not at all her style. In fact, it’s Skye’s.

Still, she’s hardly going to tell him so. And at least he’s been successfully diverted.

As has she, she realizes suddenly.

“You never answered  _my_  question,” she reminds him. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles. “Would you believe  _I’m_  taking the night off?”

“No,” she says flatly.

He’s still holding her hand. She hasn’t forgotten—how could she  _possibly_  forget—but she’s been able to ignore it, focused as she is on the conversation. Now, though, she’s forced to pay attention again, as he lifts their clasped hands to examine hers.

“Been hospitalized recently?” he asks, frowning at the bruise on the back of her hand.

The answer, of course, is yes, and obviously so. The bruise is blatant and distinctively the sort that comes from an IV.

“If I had,” she says, attempting (fruitlessly) to tug her hand away, “It would be none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, and presses his lips gently to the bruise.

He keeps his eyes locked on hers while he does it, and her heart thumps almost painfully. It’s unfair, that such a horrid man should be so attractive. It’s just completely, utterly unfair.

“You should take better care of yourself,” he says, lowering their hands back to the bar. “Now that I’m not around to watch out for you.”

Only by reminding herself that she needs not to make a scene does she resist the urge to kick him. Skye was right; his patronizing, friendly act  _is_  just as annoying as it is creepy.

Yet, somehow, she’s still dreadfully attracted to him.

This is a problem.

“You were  _never_  around to watch out for us,” she snaps, trying once more to yank her hand away. He finally lets go, but only after a pointed pause, as though to emphasize that it’s only because he  _wants_ to and not because she’s made him. “You were around to  _spy_  on us.”

“It’s not really an either/or situation,” he muses. Though he’s let go of her hand, he hasn’t moved away at all; he’s still close enough that she has no trouble hearing him over the music—close enough that she can feel the heat coming off his skin. He shifts a little, and his thigh bumps against her knee. She tries to pretend she doesn’t notice. She fails. “I was spying on you  _and_  watching out for you.”

She scoffs.

“Come on, Simmons,” he says. “You’d’ve been dead ten times over if it weren’t for me.”

She wants to tell him that all of those times he saved her life were cancelled out by the time he almost ended it. She wants to tell him that she went undercover at HYDRA and she knows things about the people he works for that make her sick to her stomach, that wake her in the middle of the night—things that make it hard for her to look at Bobbi, sometimes, even though Bobbi is amazing and brave and saved her life. She wants to remind him that she’s saved his life, too, that she once performed emergency surgery on him on a fire escape and that he never would’ve made it out of South Ossetia if not for her and Skye’s intervention.

There are so many things she’d like to say to him, but she realizes that he’s once again managed to divert her, so she keeps them to herself.

Instead, she says, “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“No.” There’s an almost cruel twist to his smile, and it should  _not_  make Jemma’s mouth go dry. It really shouldn’t. “I haven’t.”

Desperately and horribly attracted to a murderous traitor Jemma may be, but she is _not_  stupid, and Ward’s sudden change in demeanor is enough to put her on edge.

“Are you going to?” she asks, casually slipping her hand into her pocket. She doesn’t have a comm for this mission—the better to blend in—but she  _does_  have a panic button, and she’s starting to think she should’ve pressed it ages ago.

In fact, she  _knows_  she should’ve. She and her libido are going to have to have a very serious chat once all of this is over.

(Assuming she makes it out of this alive, that is. But that’s just a ridiculously morbid thought, so she decides to pretend she hasn’t had it.)

“You know,” Ward says, thoughtfully. “I think I’d rather show you.”

Then, before she has the time to properly worry about that  _very_  ominous statement, he’s kissing her. His mouth is warm and insistent against hers, he’s got one hand in her hair and the other gripping her waist, and she’ll later blame the fact that she spends at least thirty seconds kissing him back on pure reflex (though the truth is something closer to a combination of surprise and lust).

It takes her far longer than she’d like to shove him away, and the grin he’s wearing when he pulls back tells her he knows it.

She swallows, reminding herself that she’s not allowed to make a scene, and smooths her hair (which he’s tangled a bit with his grip) with as much dignity as she can muster.

“You’re here to kiss me?” she asks. She sounds a bit more breathless than she’d like, but she’s managed not to a) throw herself at him or b) beg him to do it again, so she’ll call it a victory.

“Not at all,” he says. He’s still grinning, and she tries desperately to think of an adjective other than _feral_  to describe it, because that’s just off-putting. Unfortunately, the only other adjectives that come to mind are far too flattering to be applied to a traitor like Ward. “It was just a bonus.”

There is a not-insignificant part of her which is thrilled to hear Ward refer to kissing her as a  _bonus_. She sternly reminds it that Ward is a manipulative creep who is absolutely playing her right now. It sulks.

(It’s possible her brain has been addled by that kiss. This is concerning.)

“Ward,” she says, as sharply as she’s able. “Enough games.  _What_  are you doing here?”

He sighs, heavily, but there’s something mocking about it. “You want the truth?”

“Well, obviously.”

“I’m here to do your job for you,” he says, and kisses her again.

She’s hyper-aware of every point of contact between them—of the scrape of his beard and the pressure of his lips and the slide of his tongue against hers, obviously, but also of the rough scratch of denim against her bare skin as he stands between her thighs, of the warmth of his hand as it cups her jaw. So of course she notices what he’s doing with his other hand, feels the brush of his knuckles between her breasts as he tucks the thumb drive into her bra. Of  _course_  she notices. It sends a jolt of pure lust straight to her core, sets every nerve on fire—how could she possibly miss it?

She lets herself ignore it, though, because if she acknowledges it, she’ll have to end the kiss. And if this is the last chance she ever gets to kiss him—and it  _will_  be, it  _has_  to be, because he’s  _literally evil_ , he is treacherous, murderous  _scum_ —she wants to enjoy it.

And she does.

He does, too, she thinks; certainly he’s just as breathless as she is, when they finally part. He presses a final, brief kiss to her lips—soft and chaste where the other two were passionate and intense—and then steps back, out of her reach.

She takes a moment to catch her breath and, now that the highly distracting and (unfortunately) pleasurable contact between them has ceased, finds it completely impossible to ignore the discomfort of having a hard bit of plastic tucked into her bra. She curls one hand along the edge of her stool for balance (she’s feeling more than a little light-headed, at the moment) and, after a brief glance around to check that no one’s watching (no one is, aside from Ward, and she is  _not thinking_  about the look in his eyes), fishes the thumb drive out of her bra.

There’s a sinking feeling in her chest as she stares at it, taking in the logo and the serial number etched into the side. This is, without question, the thumb drive she was ordered to retrieve.

She recalls her instructions for this mission, the orders Coulson gave her when he called her into his office this afternoon: sit at the bar, sip her drink, don’t make a scene. The doctor whose classified research she needed to liberate would come to her, he said—she’s exactly his type. All she had to do was distract him enough that she could pick his pocket, as their intelligence indicated he  _always_ carried a copy of his research on him.

It will be encrypted, naturally, but Skye can take care of that.

Of course the doctor in question hasn’t actually approached her. He would have to be insane to make a move on a woman who, as she no doubt has, appears to be involved with a man like Ward. Even dressed down in civilian garb as he is, with no visible weapons, he simply  _exudes_  menace.

In that sense, her mission has been a complete failure. In another, it’s been a complete success.

She has no idea what to say. “I—”

“You’re welcome,” Ward says. “Let’s be honest, you’ve got no hope of picking  _anyone’s_  pocket.”

“I—” She can’t deny it. She’s never picked a pocket in her life.

“Gotta go,” he says. “But it’s been fun, Simmons. We should do this again sometime.”

“No,” she manages. She curls shaking fingers around the thumb drive and tucks it into the pocket of her (Skye’s) skirt. “We really shouldn’t.”

“If you say so,” he says, and leans in close to her once more. “By the way?” He walks his fingers up her thigh to the hem of her skirt, and the touch does  _not_  make (more) heat pool between her thighs. It doesn’t. “I wasn’t kidding. This really is a great look for you.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there, and Jemma is left alone, aching for the touch of the absolute last person she should want.

This has not been a good night.

She swivels her stool to face the bar again and motions to the bartender for another drink. Her first is still half full, but she hasn’t paid it any attention in far too long, and she won’t risk drinking it now.

Once she has her drink, she stays right where she is, sipping slowly at it while she tries to get her hands to stop shaking.

Five minutes after Ward’s departure, Hunter climbs onto the stool next to her.

“So,” he says. “May was right, was she?”

“It would appear so,” she agrees. Her voice is just as unsteady as her hands; Hunter, in the act of making himself comfortable on his stool, manages to bump his shoulder against hers three times in the span of ten seconds, and it helps a little. “Ward has us bugged somehow.”

“He knew about the fake mission,” Hunter says, slouching against the bar.

“And, I suspect, that my orders were not to make a scene,” she agrees. “He wouldn’t have gone so far, otherwise.”

“Right.” Hunter looks skeptical, but is kind enough not to contradict her. “That would mean he has Coulson’s office bugged, at the very least. So what are we going to do about it, then?”

Jemma knocks back the last of her drink and motions the bartender over.  

“I have no bloody idea.”


	11. "I just walked into a room at this party and somebody yelled 'dibs!'..." (Jemma/Ward/Fitz/Skye)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> astonishes asked: "[text] "I just walked into a room at this party and somebody yelled 'dibs!'..." + Ward/Simmons/Fitz/Skye (because I'm having a lot of feels for these four lately and your writing always makes my day!"

Jemma is going to hold this over their heads forever. For. Ever.

“Go to a party,” she mocks, adopting her best impersonation of Skye. It is, she knows, a horrible one. “Get to know somebody. We hate to think of you being all alone up there.”

It’s unkind of her to be annoyed by the sentiment. She  _has_ been lonely, living by herself—sleeping alone, working alone, eating alone, doing the shopping and the laundry and the cleaning alone—after two years sharing space with Skye and Fitz and Grant. Still, she knew that going to a party wouldn’t be the best way to go about fixing that.

Of course, she was utterly able to resist their combined powers of persuasion, and so she succumbed to the suggestion (order) with—incredibly reluctant—grace.

Now she has proof that it was the wrong path to take, and so she is perhaps a little more gleeful than she should be when she texts the others,  _I just walked into a room at this party and somebody yelled ‘dibs!’…_

As expected, it takes less than three seconds for Grant to reply,  _I’ll kill him_. Also as expected, Skye and Fitz’s responses are identical and arrive near-simultaneously.  _Grant will kill him_.

She rolls her eyes.  _There’s no call for murder. I politely declined and he was very gracious about it._

 _Don’t care_ , is Grant’s response.  _I’m still gonna kill him._

 _How can you kill him?_  She texts back quickly.  _I’ve given you nothing by which to identify him_.

 _Point_ , he allows.  _Guess I’ll just have to kill everyone at the party_.

She makes a face at her phone. It’s been years since Grant was the out-of-control, frankly  _terrifying_ murderer they first met—long enough that not only does he feel comfortable joking about it, but that she, Fitz, and Skye feel comfortable laughing—but there are still times that she gets the unsettling feeling that he’s not actually joking.

This is one of those times, which she’ll blame on the fact that tone is very difficult to read through a text message.

Still, mass murder isn’t something he indulges in these days (that she knows of, at least), so she’ll go with the assumption that it’s a joke.

 _And how would you manage that?_  she asks.  _You’ve no way of knowing who’s at this party and, even if you did, are a thousand miles away, besides._

“You sure about that?”

Jemma drops her phone and whirls to face the owner of the unexpected voice, certain that her ears are playing a cruel trick on her. If they are, however, her eyes must be in on it as well; standing before her, hands tucked in his pockets and smug grin on his beautiful, beautiful face, is one of the three people she loves most in the world.

“Grant!” she cries, and throws herself at him.

He folds his arms around her and presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she can hear the smile in his voice when he asks, “Miss me?”

“Of  _course_  I missed you!” she exclaims. She’d like to pinch him for the question (he’s fishing for compliments, which is a habit she and the others have been trying to break him of), but she can’t bear to let go of him even for a moment, so she compromises by squeezing him with all her might. “What are you doing here? If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t,” he promises, kissing her hair again. “No one saw me come in, and there’s too much of a crowd here for anyone to notice me now.”

He removes one arm from around her, but before she can protest, he uses his newly freed hand to tip her chin up in order to kiss her properly, and that—well. It’s certainly worth the loosening of his embrace.

She kisses him once—twice—three times before her questions outweigh her desperation for him (but only just).

“Still,” she says. “It’s a risk. And the others—”

“Fitz and Skye are safe at home,” he cuts in. “Very loudly complaining about me being sent on a mission when you’ve already been taken away from us.” He kisses her again, gently. “No one’s gonna find out, Jem. I promise.”

It’s a risk, and a dangerous one—the consequences if he’s caught!—but she can’t bring herself to protest it any further.

“I missed you,” she says, voice breaking. “So much.”

“I know,” he sooths, and kisses her once more. “We missed you, too.” He looks around, a disdainful frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then steps away from her, taking her hand. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere a little…quieter.”

As is to be expected of a house party, there aren’t many quiet spots to be found. Grant, however, seems to have the layout of the house memorized—because of course he does—and he leads her unerringly to a small study on the second floor.

“Soundproofed,” he explains, smugly, as he closes the door behind them. Sure enough, the noise level drops abruptly; they could be alone in the house, for how quiet it is in here.

There’s an oversized armchair near the fireplace, and it’s to that he leads her. He sits down, tugging her into his lap, and she curls happily into his embrace, even as she frets over his presence.

SHIELD has always frowned, somewhat, on the unconventional relationship the four of them share, and Grant’s status as a former HYDRA agent doesn’t help. Still, as long as it didn’t affect their work, and as long as Grant continued to serve SHIELD loyally, they were allowed to live as they wished. And they did, happily, for two whole years.

And then Jemma messed it up.

She can admit, now, that her actions were unwise—driven entirely by emotion and not the least bit rational. But Fitz and Skye were taken hostage and Grant was nearly killed trying to prevent it, and she—well, she lost her head a little.

She disobeyed orders, both immediate and standing, and exposed an entire HYDRA base to an infectious agent of her own design.  _Emotionally motivated biological warfare_ , her superiors called it, and she can’t really deny the claim, even if she thinks it’s a touch dramatic.

SHIELD decided that their relationship couldn’t stand. It was only May’s intervention that stopped them _all_  from being forcibly and permanently separated; she managed to bargain their sentence (and it  _is_  a sentence, as bad in its way as imprisonment) down, and they were given the chance to prove that they’re not  _entirely_  compromised.

Jemma was sent away alone, while the others were allowed to remain home and continue as they were accustomed. They’re allowed epistolary contact only—text messages, post cards, and emails—and they have a weekly limit.

It feels, to be frank, like living under the rule of a completely unreasonable and overprotective parent, and Jemma hates it. A lot.

Still, it’s almost over. Six more weeks and their case will be reviewed by the Office of Agent Conduct (the official title; Skye has other, less kind, names for it), and she might be allowed to go home.

That chance is the only thing that’s got her through these horrible months of separation, and Grant is risking it now.

“Stop worrying,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I can’t help it,” she says. “If you’re caught…”

“I won’t be,” he reiterates. “Here, I’ve got something to take your mind off of it.”

He shifts her slightly in his lap so he can reach his pocket, drawing out a phone and handing it over.

“Your phone?” she asks, confused. Then she frowns, examining it. “This isn’t your phone.”

“No,” he says. “It isn’t.” He resettles her (and she’s missed this, the easy way he manhandles them, just moving them to wherever he wants them without so much as a by-your-leave; she’s missed watching Skye try to flee the kitchen when it’s her turn to do the washing up, missed laughing with Fitz while Grant catches Skye and carries her to the sink without breaking a sweat) so she’s sitting with her back to his chest and his arms around her waist. “Bought clandestinely, with cash, and personally encrypted by Skye.” He hooks his chin over her shoulder. “Turn it on.”

She does (though not without elbowing him a bit for his imperious tone), and tears spring to her eyes at once. The lock-screen is a familiar photo: the four of them in their living room, Grant’s face the particular mix of fond and long-suffering he only gets around them, Skye’s alight with laughter, and Fitz’s scrunched in a scowl. Looking at her own face—smug in the victory she’s just won against Fitz in Scrabble—hurts a little; it feels like years since she’s been that happy.

Grant’s arms tighten around her waist like he knows what she’s thinking, and he kisses her neck softly.

“Unlock it.”

She does; the combination only takes two tries to guess. She barely has a moment to take in the home screen before the phone is ringing with an incoming Face Time. Her heart leaps, and she doesn’t need Grant’s prodding to hit accept.

Skye and Fitz’s faces appear on the screen, and just like that, she loses the battle against her tears.

“No, no,” Skye says, sounding a little teary herself. Her voice is so familiar and beloved that Jemma cries that much harder, much to Skye’s distress. “You can’t cry, Jem, please—you’ll get me started.”

“Again,” is Fitz’s contribution, and he’s got that irritated tone that means he’s feeling overly emotional and hates it. “She’s already cried twice today.” He looks aggrieved. “Ruined my new tie snotting all over it.”

“It was ugly anyway,” Skye says, unashamed, and Jemma laughs around a sob.

“I miss you,” she says.

“Well, that’s fine,” Fitz says. “Finally have some peace and quiet to work in. I haven’t missed you at all.”

“ _That_  is a blatant lie, Leopold Fitz,” she says. “As though you could have peace and quiet with Skye there.”

“Hey!” Skye says, as Grant hides a smile in Jemma’s shoulder. “I mean, true, but still.” Fitz opens his mouth, then winces a bit; Jemma suspects Skye has just elbowed him. “But enough banter. I want to know how you’ve been—and the truth, okay? No stiff-upper-lipping it like you’ve been doing in your emails.”

“Agreed,” Fitz says, pointing at her. “Be honest. We’ll know if you’re not.”

And they will, is the thing. She’s so much better at lying than she used to be, but she could never lie to them—to her heart, in its three distinct and lovely pieces.

“As you wish,” she says, just to see Skye grin and Fitz roll his eyes. Behind her, Grant sighs; the _Princess Bride_  debate is still ongoing. “Where shall I start?”

“How about the guy who called dibs?” Skye suggests. “Has Grant killed him yet?”

“Not yet,” Grant says, and his voice has a hint of that worryingly light tone that used to spell trouble. “Give me time.”

“Or I could start at the beginning,” she decides, and leans back against Grant’s chest, turning slightly to press a quick kiss to his jaw. Some of the tension melts out of him, and she smiles, smug. “First of all, you would not  _believe_  the lab they’ve stuck me in…”

They spend hours catching up, and while it’s miles away from what she wants—which, in an ideal world, would be to curl up with the three of them in their bed at home and not leave for at least two days—it’s also miles away from what she’s had, and she’ll take what she can get.

When Grant finally takes his leave—reluctantly and with many muttered threats against SHIELD—she’s able to see him off with barely a tear.

She’ll be home soon enough.


	12. "So...are we close enough friends that you're willing to bail me out?" (Arrow crossover)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "[text] "So...are we close enough friends that you're willing to bail me out?" Jemma and Felicity brotp"

Felicity’s about three lines of code away from completing the program she’s writing (call it an insurance policy; their lair’s been compromised about five times too many for her taste, and it’s about time she did something about it) when her phone beeps with an incoming text message.

She doesn’t want to stop, not when she’s on a roll, so close to finishing after spending nearly two full days working on this, but in their line of work (or, well, line of extracurricular activities, really, but whatever), it’s never a good idea to ignore your phone.

So she compromises. “Roy, could you check my phone, please?”

“Seriously?” Roy grumbles, but he’s already setting down his bow and abandoning target practice to join her at her desk. “It’s literally right next to you.”

“I’m busy,” she says mildly. Two lines to go, and she’s  _definitely_  going to have to treat herself to something nice once she gets this done. She’ll still need to implement it, test it, and then make whatever changes are necessary, but it’s innovative and creative and, to be blunt,  _really freaking pretty_ code. She deserves a reward for being so awesome.

“And I wasn’t?” he counters, even as he picks up her phone. He frowns skeptically at the screen. “Uh, someone named Jemma wants to know if you’re good enough friends to bail her out.”

Felicity’s so shocked that she actually hits three keys at once, and has to hurriedly backspace. Oliver pauses half-way up the salmon ladder.

“Felicity?” he asks.

“Give me that,” she says, and snatches her phone out of Roy’s hands.

Sure enough, the text is from Jemma, and it says  _So…are we close enough friends that you’re willing to bail me out?_

They’ve been best friends for years, since they were just kids and Felicity’s well-meaning mother enrolled her in what was, essentially, a child prodigy pen-pal club. (That was not at all the point of the whole exercise, but Felicity’s long since forgotten what  _was_ —if she ever even knew it. What mattered at the time was that Felicity got a long-distance best friend out of it and her mom stopped talking about making her skip a few grades.) The idea that Felicity might  _not_  bail Jemma out—might not do _anything_  for Jemma’s sake—is ridiculous.

Or it would’ve been, maybe. Before.

She’s pretty sure there’s a silent  _still_  tacked in there, between  _we_  and  _close_. The vague-yet-menacing government agency Jemma works for recently came crashing down in a super public and super terrifying way; words like  _treason_  and  _duplicity_  have been tossed around like candy, and every single person who’s ever so much as spoken to a SHIELD agent is being looked at with suspicion.

This is the first time she’s heard from Jemma since the truth came out. Maybe Jemma thinks  _Felicity_ thinks she’s a traitor, a secret member of HYDRA. Maybe she thinks Felicity suspects her.

So…yeah, no, it’s  _still_  a ridiculous idea.

She went looking, but there was nothing about Jemma in the flood of SHIELD files that appeared on the internet after the HYDRA bomb (figuratively speaking, and wow, that’s a turn of phrase she’s not gonna be using ever again; way to be insensitive, Felicity) dropped, and Felicity detected the touch of another hacker—another  _really talented_  hacker—there. So she doesn’t know conclusively, one hundred percent for sure that Jemma’s not HYDRA.

But come on. It’s  _Jemma_. Of course she’s not HYDRA.

 _I’m gonna pretend you didn’t ask me that_ , she texts back.  _Where are you?_

 _Downtown Los Angeles,_  Jemma replies quickly.  _Perhaps five minutes away from being arrested._

 _On my way_ , she types.  _You can use your one phone call to explain yourself_. She hits send, considers her message, and then adds,  _It had better be a really great explanation. Including such details as WHY it took you so long to contact me._

 _Yes, ma’am_ , is the response, followed a second later by,  _All right, I have to go get arrested. Please bring me a change of clothes._

Felicity has  _so many_ questions, but they’ll have to wait. Right now, she’s apparently needed in LA.

She saves her code and shuts the computers down hurriedly, and has already collected her coat and purse before she realizes that Oliver is standing on the other side of her desk, watching her expectantly.

“I have to go,” she says. “I’ll be back…” She hesitates. Who knows what kind of trouble Jemma is in or how long it’ll take to fix? “Eventually.”

“Eventually?” Roy echoes, clearly unimpressed.

Oliver is doing that worried thing with his eyebrows. “Felicity, what’s going on?”

“Friend in need,” she says shortly. She doesn’t really have time for explanations; it’ll take a while to get to LA, especially if she needs to make a stop for clothes, and she doesn’t want Jemma to have to spend any longer in jail than totally necessary. “I’ll be in touch.”

She pecks Oliver on the cheek as she passes him, which—in addition to serving as a semi-intimate goodbye (necessary because they’re still in a very murky more-than-friends, less-than-lovers territory)—has the benefit of freezing him in place long enough for her to make it to the top of the stairs unimpeded.

“Later, be safe, call me if you need anything!” she throws over her shoulder, and then she’s out the door.

Jemma had better have a  _really good_  explanation for all this.


	13. Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous said: "Biospecialist [Sorrow], please"

When Jemma gets kicked out of Fitz’s room for the night, she doesn’t go to the quarters she’s been assigned. She doesn’t go to the office that’s been given to Coulson, where he is undoubtedly still waiting for an explanation as to why Jemma is concussed and Fitz is in a coma. She doesn’t go to the kitchen, even though it’s been at least sixteen hours since she last ate.

Instead, she goes to the Bus.

It’s still in the hangar, left right inside the landing bay where May landed it this morning. She knows the others were talking about moving it somewhere that it would be less in the way, but apparently they haven’t gotten around to it, yet.

It’s just as well.

She feels oddly distant as she climbs the ramp, as though she’s watching someone else to do it. She thought she might be nervous to return to the Bus, considering the manner in which she last departed it—that stepping foot on it would be too much for her—but she hardly feels anything at all.

If there’s anyone else on board, she sees no sign of them. The engines are off, and the internal systems with them; she doesn’t hear anything, not even the hum of the air conditioning, as she climbs the stairs and crosses the lounge.

She might not have heard it even if it were on, however; her heart is pounding so loudly in her ears that she can’t even hear her own steps.

She doesn’t go to her bunk. That’s not why she’s here.

She goes to Grant’s.

It looks the same as ever: bed made, covers military-straight, shelves almost distressingly bare. Grant has never kept any personal effects in his bunk, and while he’s always blamed it on simply not having any— _none of the trips I’ve taken are the kind that come with souvenirs, Jem_ —she wonders now if was deliberate. If it was because he was expecting to leave the team on short notice, or if the things he _does_  own were too likely to give away his real personality.

She closes the door behind herself and flicks the lock, imagines trapping those thoughts on the other side of it, where they can’t touch her. Dwelling on the lie that was Grant Ward won’t do her any good. She’ll never have answers for her thousands of questions, and coming up with more can only hurt.

She’s not here for answers.

She’s here to grieve.

Everyone else is so full of rage and hate towards Grant, and it’s not that Jemma isn’t—she hates him, of course she hates him, he tried to kill her and came so close to succeeding, and they still don’t know what damage has been done to Fitz—it’s just…that’s not all she’s feeling.

His leather jacket is hanging on a hook just inside his closet, and she takes it down and hugs it to her chest. It smells like him, like that particular combination of cologne and gunpowder, and abruptly, her eyes are filled with tears.

The bunk is tiny; it’s two steps from the wardrobe to his bed, and she collapses onto it, curling around the jacket like it’s a teddy bear.

The last time she was in this bed, she was curled around Grant. He kissed her hair and told her he’d be fine, that she didn’t have anything to worry about, and then listened very patiently to her lecture on the importance of taking care of himself while she was gone. He made her promise to stick close to Trip and not to let Fitz do anything stupid (she should have  _listened_ , she should have  _expected_ it, stupid, foolish,  _recklessly brave_  Fitz) and told her not to hesitate to throw Coulson between herself and danger.

He made her laugh and kissed her, and then…

He told her he loved her.

He told her he loved her, and then, less than a week later, he tried to kill her. He tried to kill her after trying to  _keep_  her (and that’s what he said, that he wanted to keep her, and while a tiny part of her was happy that he wanted her, most of her was—and still is—utterly  _terrified_  of what he might have meant by that), after trying to gain her cooperation by threatening Fitz, and she—

She can’t fight her tears any longer. She curls up tighter and sobs into his jacket, wishing he were here instead and hating herself for it.

He’s a traitor. He’s a murderer. He’s a  _liar_. He nearly killed her and Fitz.

But she still loves him, and she has no idea how to stop.


	14. One to Lord Voldemort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "“Okay, on a scale from one to I just summoned Lord Voldemort, how badly did I fuck up?” (i think this suits Jemma loads!!) Biospecialist please :D"

“Okay, on a scale from one to  _I just summoned Lord Voldemort_ , how badly did I fuck up?”

Grant makes a thoughtful face. “Let’s say…invading Russia in winter.”

“Ugggh,” she groans, flopping back on the bed and covering her face. “I knew it. I  _knew_  it. I told you we should have left this to someone else!”

“Hey,” he says, and she feels the bed shift under her as he lies down next to her. “It’s not that bad.”

Not even  _he_  can make a lie that blatant convincing, and she doesn’t dignify his attempt with a response. He laughs.

“Okay, it is that bad,” he admits, rubbing a soothing hand over her stomach. “What I meant was, it’s fixable.”

“…How?” she asks, lowering her hands to look at him. He’s propped up on one elbow next to her, and when he sees her looking, he grins.

“How do you feel about playing brainwashed?” he asks.

She frowns at him. “Really? I just completely bollixed up my own cover—the cover that I’ve been using for  _years_. Haven’t we conclusively proven that I’m a complete failure when it comes to deception?”

“See, that’s the beauty in it,” he says, brushing her hair away from her forehead. His hand lingers, fingers tracing down her cheek, and his touch leaves fire in its wake. They’re both feeling touch-starved, she thinks, after the months they spent apart—while she was undercover and he was in Vault D—and he’s been taking every possible opportunity for physical contact. “You don’t have to use a cover. Just be yourself, throw in a  _happy to comply_ or two, and they’ll jump to conclusions. The team’ll do your job for you.”

That  _is_  a thought, isn’t it? She considers it carefully, turning over the idea—weighing the possibilities further deception offers versus the benefits of just finally breaking away from the team and moving on.

“It won’t last forever,” he says, trailing his fingers along her collarbone. “Sooner or later they’ll realize you’re faking. But it’ll take a while. They’ll want to believe it.”

“That’s true,” she sighs. She knows how attached the team is to her—and is, admittedly, quite attached in return. They won’t want to let go of her, not after losing Grant. Just as they made excuse after excuse for Bobbi and Mack when the whole “real” SHIELD business came to light, they’ll be full of excuses for her. “Still…”

“Up to you,” he says. “But my cover’s beyond blown with them. If you walk away, we’ll lose our only leverage.” He traces the line of her bra—down one strap, across the cups, up the other strap. “Which means we lose Fitz and Skye.”

Also true. She’s  _so close_  to turning them, to winning them over, and it would be a shame to lose them now.

“Very well,” she decides. “I’ll try it.  _But_ …” She catches his hand, stopping the maddening pattern he’s drawing along her cleavage. “I expect you to rescue me promptly, should things go wrong.”

“Of course,” he says, and rolls on top of her. He lowers his head to kiss her sweetly. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Jem. You know that.”

“I do,” she agrees, shifting a little to let his weight settle on her more comfortably. “But I’m including being locked up in that. I couldn’t possibly survive the Vault the way you did.” She lifts a hand to trace along the scar on his forehead—a relic of his third suicide attempt. “I’d genuinely go mad.”

“I know,” he says. “Don’t worry.” He kisses her again, a little more intently. “I’d kill them all before I let them do that to you.”

She smiles. She loves this about him, that he gets so violent on her behalf. It’s one of her favorite things.

“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary,” she says. “Although, should you be so inclined, I  _really_  wouldn’t mind if you killed Lorenzo anyway.”

“Consider it done,” he murmurs, and kisses her a third time.

“Excellent,” she beams. “Then we’re decided. Now…” She shifts her hips, pointedly, and he grins. “I think that’s enough talk for the moment, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”


	15. Insanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Can you do Biospecialist and number 12 for that drabble thing."
> 
> _(12. Insanity)_
> 
> Note: this was inspired by episode 2x15, One Door Closes, and as such contains spoiler-y themes for that episode.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend_.

Jemma’s heard it said before, and might even have said it herself. But she’s never understood it the way she does right now.

Skye, Coulson, and Hunter are all missing. Fitz and May are being held prisoner. Bobbi and Mack are traitors.

The Playground is compromised.

Jemma has no allies left.

And when there are no allies to be found, one must turn to one’s enemies for aid. It’s a simple equation; the Playground is being held by one mass of enemies—Bobbi and Mack and  _Agent Weaver_ (Agent Weaver for whom she mourned, for whom she searched for  _weeks_ ) and their false SHIELD—and Jemma cannot defeat them alone. She needs back-up.

To call on HYDRA would accomplish nothing. They know she was a mole and will be in no hurry to aid her; should she contact them, she will do nothing but sign her own death warrant.

But there’s another option.

Ward.

Her stomach twists just to think of it, to consider calling upon  _him_ , of all people. He tried to kill her and Fitz, kidnapped and threatened Skye— _twice_ —and has caused no end of trouble for the team.

He was their friend, and he betrayed them.

But his is not the most recent betrayal, and whatever else he’s done, he has remained committed to his pretense of trying to help them. She doesn’t believe it for a second—doesn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—but if he’s pretending to be on their side, he might be willing to help her take the Playground back.

Whether the others would support this course of action, she couldn’t possibly say. But it’s her only option—other than doing nothing, and that’s the one thing she cannot do.

She won’t turn her back on her team. She won’t be another on a long list of betrayals.

So she calls Ward.

That’s a gamble in itself, the assumption that his arrogance will be such that he hasn’t disconnected his old number, but not much of one. Since he revealed himself as the traitor he is—since he shed the cover that so easily fooled them all—she’s come to realize that arrogance is one of his defining traits.

Sure enough, the call goes through.

When he answers, it’s a struggle to keep her voice even. “Ward.” She means to get right to the point, but the rest of her words stick in her throat.

The last time she saw him, she very sincerely threatened to kill him. Calling on him for aid, no matter how necessary, isn’t easy.

“Simmons,” he says, and she can hear a smile in his voice. “What a pleasant surprise. What’s up?”

“I need your help,” she says.

“What kind of help?” he asks. “Is it the kind where I stand still and let you try to kill me, because as fun as that could be—”

“The Playground’s been compromised,” she cuts in, and he falls silent. She doesn’t know if he was ever actually told the name of the base he was being imprisoned in, but surely he can figure it out from the context. “You remember Bobbi?”

“Blonde on the bus?” he asks. All traces of amusement have disappeared from his voice; he sounds completely serious. “Played decoy when the team was tracking me after my escape.”

“That’s her,” she confirms.

“What about her?” he asks.

“She’s a traitor,” she says, and she’s proud of the way her voice doesn’t break on the word. She’s so _sick_  of being let down by the people she cares about, and for it to be Bobbi— _Bobbi_ , who has, since their escape from HYDRA, undoubtedly become her closest friend…

She can’t stand it. She doesn’t know how many more betrayals she’ll survive.

“She’s a traitor,” she repeats, forcing herself to focus. “And she let an enemy force claiming to be the ‘real’ SHIELD into the Playground. They’ve taken it over.”

“The real SHIELD?” Ward echoes skeptically. “What the hell does that mean?”

“God knows,” she says. “So far their only objective seems to be causing trouble.”

“I can respect that,” he muses. “But…not if it puts my team at risk.”

She twitches to hear him call them  _his_  team, but it is, after all, the reaction she was hoping for, so she holds her tongue.

“What’s your status?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I managed to get away clean. The rest of the team wasn’t so lucky.”

“Skye?” he asks.

“Missing,” she admits reluctantly. She hopes Skye will forgive her for bringing Ward into this. (She hopes Skye is still  _alive_  to hold a grudge.) “As are Coulson and Hunter.”

“Hunter,” Ward says. “Guy in a cowboy hat?”

She’s never seen him wear any such thing, but if any of the team were going to, he’d be the one. “Yes.”

“Fitz? May?”

“Captured,” she says. “Being held in the Playground. May is fine, Fitz has some minor injuries.”

“And Trip?”

The name hits her right in the throat, and for a moment, she can’t even breathe, let alone speak.

Of course. Of course Ward wouldn’t know. They haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since Skye shot him; he’d have no way of knowing that…that…

“Simmons?” Ward prompts.

She clears her throat, reaching for calm, but her voice still wavers when she says, “Trip is dead. He died in Puerto Rico.”

Ward is silent for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, and he sounds sincere. “I didn’t realize.”

“Yes, well.” She clears her throat again. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Of course,” he says easily. “But I hope you know I’m not gonna be playing nice just because you’re the one asking. I don’t play by Coulson’s rules; if I take your base back for you, I’m crossing people off. I won’t be taking prisoners.”

Jemma’s eyes are locked on the ground, but she’s not seeing it. What she’s seeing is Fitz being carried unconscious into the lab, Bobbi collaborating with the enemy, Agent Weaver acting as if  _Jemma_  is the traitor—as though  _she_  should be begging forgiveness.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, she reminds herself, and if Ward is now her friend then the agents at the Playground are most certainly her enemies.

This is insane. But it’s the only way.

“That’s fine,” she says. “Neither will I.”


	16. Sharing a bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo asked: "I may regret this, but biospecialist 16"
> 
> _(16. Sharing a bed)_
> 
> **Warning:** for such a rom-com-ish prompt, this actually got super dark. So warnings for torture, manipulation, Grant being a bad guy, and other fun HYDRA stuff.

Jemma doesn’t know how long it’s been since she was taken prisoner.

The days bleed into one another, pain-pain-pain and comfort-comfort-comfort, a horrible, endless cycle meant to break her will. She has screamed and begged and pleaded until her voice deserted her, until her throat was raw and every swallow of the water she is so rarely given was agony.

She hasn’t broken, though. Not yet.

She’s sure it’s been months; the comfort half of the cycle is not as difficult to keep track of (though still not easy), and she knows she’s spent weeks at a time in it. And she knows she’s spent longer in the torture half than the comfort half.

Thus, months.

She isn’t sure of the exact amount, however. She doesn’t know the precise date. She wonders if knowing would make it easier or harder—she’s proud of herself, in a distant, painful sort of way, for how long she’s endured her suffering, but at the same time…

At the same time, it’s been  _months_  and she has yet to be rescued.

It’s been months, and her torture continues—in many forms.

One of those forms is Grant, and not in the way she might have assumed, had she been told ahead of time that he would one day torture her.

(Once—before—she would have laughed at the idea that Grant might torture her. She would have thought the mere suggestion of him being involved in something like this was nothing short of absurd.)

(Once, she would have counted on Grant to be the one to rescue her.)

He hasn’t been unkind.

He hasn’t spoken cruelly to her, or beaten her, or—despite the fact that she sleeps beside him whenever she’s in his custody and despite the implications he made at the airfield—forced himself on her. He hasn’t harmed her at all.

She doesn’t wish he would—she’s not  _that_  far gone, not yet—but she knows that it would be better if he did.

His kindness is just as much a curse as the cruelty she experiences elsewhere in the building. When she is with him, he speaks soothing words, treats her wounds, and wraps her in his arms the way he used to before, when they were together. Grant is the comfort half of her torture cycle and Jemma—despite her best efforts—is comforted indeed.

This is not a good thing.

She knows what he’s doing. She is perfectly aware of the game HYDRA is playing with her.

Grant is just one more aspect of her torture—a subtler, more insidious aspect. He is the good cop to Bakshi’s bad, the carrot to Bakshi’s stick. Bakshi tortures her, tears her to pieces physically and emotionally, and Grant patches her back together.

HYDRA is forcing her to equate Grant with comfort and safety, perhaps even love, and even knowing what they’re doing—even knowing  _why_ —even knowing exactly what sort of consequences it will have—

Jemma can’t fight it. She can’t fight  _him_.

She tried, at first—oh, how she tried. The first time the soldiers dragged her out of Bakshi’s torture chamber and here to Grant’s apartments, she tried so hard to escape. And even when that failed, she didn’t give up. She shouted at him, shoved out of his embrace—even refused to let him treat the injuries Bakshi’s attentions had left her with.

But she was tired. She  _is_  tired. After months of endless torture, of constant, immeasurable pain, she hasn’t the fight left in her to turn away from Grant’s comfort.

She can still fight HYDRA—can refuse to answer Bakshi’s questions, refuse to turn on her team—but she cannot fight Grant.

So she doesn’t shove him away. She eats the food he places in front of her, sits docilely as he tends to her wounds, lets him lead her to his bed, and sobs into his shoulder as he strokes her hair and murmurs soothing nonsense. When she’s with him, she sleeps beside him every night without a word of protest.

She shouldn’t. She  _knows_  she shouldn’t. She can track the progression of her ease with him, can almost see the resistance within her dwindling. Under Bakshi’s not-so-tender mercies, she no longer yearns for her team—for rescue. She yearns for Grant.

It’s dangerous.

But knowing that—knowing  _precisely_  what HYDRA is doing in sending her to Grant—doesn’t make it any easier to fight. It doesn’t make their methods any less effective.

And the worst part is, they know it.

Her time with Grant is decreasing. The first time they brought her to him, she was left with him for three weeks—long enough for her body to begin to recover from the torture. Last time, it was only four days. They’re limiting her contact with him, and she imagines that their next step will be to demand something in exchange for said contact—a name, a location, some ‘harmless’ piece of intel.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do.

She knows that giving in will only mean escalation; their requests for intel won’t stay harmless for long. Before she knows it, they’ll be asking for access codes and secrets, perhaps even for her assistance in some scientific matter or another.

She understands that that’s where this is going, can see the steps charted out in front of her as clearly as if they’d been written on the wall in neon green ink.

But she still doesn’t know that she’ll be able to resist.

It’s been two days now that she’s been with Grant. They’ll be coming to take her back to Bakshi soon. Tomorrow, perhaps the day after if she’s fortunate, she’ll be back in that awful white room that brings nothing but pain.

Tonight, curled up in Grant’s arms, safe in his bed, she considers what she might be willing to give not to return to that room at all. She considers how much she might be willing to pay to stay with Grant indefinitely.

It’s not the first time she’s pondered it.

It is, however, the first time the answer isn’t  _nothing_.


	17. Fake dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Biospecialist fake dating for the 400 follower prompt meme please"

“Coulson is desperate,” Grant reports. “Right now, his science department consists of a Level One lab tech and two cadets rescued from the wreckage of the Academy. There are reports of alien tech and mysterious artifacts flooding in, but he’s got no one to deal with them.”

“Interesting,” Whitehall says, leaning back in his chair. “And he’s expecting you to rectify this situation? How?”

Grant grimaces. “My cover with his team included a girlfriend working at the Sandbox.” He shrugs. “An excuse for a secure line so I could stay in contact with Garrett.”

It was the perfect alibi, really. His cover is a very reserved kind of guy, so no one was suspicious when he disappeared to make phone calls to his girlfriend in private. Likewise, they weren’t surprised when he refused to provide any details about her, despite Skye’s relentless badgering.

At the time, it was convenient. More than, really; it’s half the reason he was able to make it through the uprising with his cover intact, visits to his girlfriend (explained away as frightened into hiding, but otherwise fine) serving to justify his frequent absences from Providence as he and Garrett worked to complete the Centipede project.

Of course,  _that_  all went down in flames, but Grant’s kept the girlfriend pretense up regardless. He doesn’t have to report to HYDRA as frequently as he reported to Garrett, but any excuse to leave the oppressive confines of the Playground is a welcome one.

“They think she’s in hiding,” he adds. “Traumatized by the uprising. I’ve claimed to be working on her, trying to get her to come in to SHIELD, and, well,” he scowls. “Coulson’s forced the issue.”

Whitehall considers this for a moment, swirling his brandy in its glass.

“This is an opportunity,” he says. “We can not only infiltrate, but  _control_  SHIELD’s science department.” He gives Grant a searching look. “What do they know about this girlfriend of yours?”

“Only that she’s brilliant,” he says. “And traumatized from seeing a lot of her friends die.”

Whitehall nods thoughtfully. “We can certainly work with that.”

“Sir?” Grant asks. It’s more of a prompt than anything else. He knows where this is going—has known since the moment Coulson apologetically told him that they couldn’t afford to give his ‘girlfriend’ any more time.

Sure enough…

“We’re going to give you a girlfriend, Mr. Ward.” Whitehall smiles. “And I have just the person in mind.”

\---

The person in question turns out to be Jemma Simmons, HYDRA’s best biochemist. It’s proof of Grant’s own position within HYDRA that they’re trusting him with her, which eases some (though not all) of his irritation.

He’s had time to resign himself to the possibility of needing to fake a relationship with one of HYDRA’s scientists. He knew, when he decided to draw the ruse out past the fall of SHIELD, that there was the risk Coulson would force the issue and have him bring his girlfriend in.

Jemma, however, is  _not_  resigned. She’s also not impressed.

“I’m a scientist, not an  _actress_ ,” she informs him, annoyed.

They’re in her bedroom, she packing and him going over their cover story with her for the tenth time in the last three days, and his presence on her bed seems to be driving her to new heights of aggravation.

He would enjoy it more if he weren’t genuinely concerned that she might be annoyed enough to get them both caught purely out of spite.

“You made it all the way through SciTech and a decade at the Sandbox without getting caught out as HYDRA,” he points out, reaching for patience. “How is this different?”

“For one thing, I was only pretending to be  _myself_  in SHIELD,” she says. “I wasn’t attempting to convincingly portray a long-term relationship with a complete stranger!” She returns her attention to her packing. “And for another, I actually didn’t.”

“…Didn’t what?” he asks, with a sinking feeling.

“Make it all the way through SciTech and the Sandbox without getting caught,” she clarifies, aiming a grimace at the shirt she’s folding. “There were…a few incidents.”

For fuck’s sake.

“What kind of incidents?”

“A few lab techs had to be taken care of,” she says dismissively. “It was nothing major, but it reinforces my point, which is that I am  _not_  the right person for this job.”

“Take it up with Whitehall,” he advises. “If it were up to me, there wouldn’t  _be_  a job.”

She sighs, heavily. “I already have. Apparently my reputation within SHIELD is a selling point.”

That pretty much goes without saying. Even  _he_  heard about the famous FitzSimmons back in the day; Coulson’s going to be over the moon when he brings in one half of SHIELD’s most brilliant science team. Grant thinks Whitehall is counting on that reputation to smooth over any rough edges—a lot of exceptions can be made for a woman of Jemma’s genius.

“So we’re both stuck,” he says. “Complaining won’t do any good.”

“It makes me feel better,” she grouses, quietly, but the line of her shoulders has relaxed a bit. She shoves her stack of folded shirts into her suitcase with a little more force than necessary, then drops down next to him on the bed with another sigh. “All right. Tell me again how we met. And is your cover the jealous sort, by the way? I imagine if he is, we would have had problems over Fitz…”

(It turns out that Jemma’s approach to lying—once she gets past the complaining, at least—is to plan everything down to the last detail. It’s cute…for the first two hours.)

\---

“Well, that went well,” Jemma says brightly. “I like your team, Grant. They’re very…friendly.”

“They’re trying to embarrass me,” he corrects dryly. “But yeah. They’re okay.”

As expected, Coulson was overjoyed to meet Jemma. What Grant  _didn’t_  expect—but really should’ve—was that the rest of the team was overjoyed to meet his  _girlfriend_. Mostly so they could fill her with stories about everything he got up to during their time on the Bus.

He has to admit Jemma did a good job rolling with it—scolding him for his carelessness with his safety, smiling over his more dramatic acts of heroism, and being archly displeased at the mentions of him using his smile to get his way with civilian women—but he still spent the past five hours on edge, waiting for things to go wrong.

Luckily, they never did. Grant and Jemma made it through the introductions and the team dinner with no trouble, and they retired to his room (which they will, naturally, be sharing) with the team none the wiser about exactly who they’ve welcomed into their midst.

He made it very clear to Jemma before leaving HYDRA how important it is to maintain their cover even when they’re alone, so it’s not really a surprise when she settles into his lap as soon as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

Okay, it’s a little bit of a surprise. But it’s a pleasant one, at least.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she says deliberately, resting her arms on his shoulders and lacing her fingers behind his neck. “You were right. It was time to stop hiding.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down her sides. “But I’m sorry I had to push.”

“That’s all right,” she says, leaning in close. “I like you when you’re pushy.”

He’s not really sure where she’s going with this—there’s a difference between keeping their covers in place and putting on a show when no one’s around—but, unlike his cover, Grant’s perfectly capable of going with the flow. So when she kisses him, he’s all too happy to kiss her back.

She’s a beautiful woman and he’s going to spend the foreseeable future pretending to be in love with her. What’s the harm in getting some enjoyment out of it?

Still, he’s a little taken aback when she sits back on his thighs and strips out of her sweater, leaving her only in a very purple—and very attractive—bra. He slides a hand into her hair to cup the back of her neck and tugs her forward, into another kiss.

“What are you doing?” he asks, quietly, against her mouth. (Just in case anyone’s listening at the door. He honestly wouldn’t put it past that lab tech.)

“If I’m going to be stuck on this assignment,” she murmurs, lips brushing his with every word. “I intend to have some fun with it.”

Well.

“I assume that won’t be a problem?” she adds, as an afterthought.

He grins. “Not at all.”

“Excellent,” she says, and reaches back to undo the clasp of her bra.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.


	18. For a good time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Can you please do [text] “Do you know your number is written under ‘for a good time call’?” for Biospeicalist?"

“Jem! Jemma! You have to come with me to the bathroom  _right now_.”

Jemma frowns at Skye, confused. “But…you just went with Bobbi.”

“I know I did! Which is why it’s your turn!” Skye tugs on her arm. “Come  _on_!”

She feels as though there’s a flaw in that logic somewhere, but she’s had three very large and very brightly colored drinks, so her ability to find said flaw has been hampered somewhat. As such, she lets Skye tug her to her feet, giving Trip an apologetic smile.

Because Trip is a lovely, sweet angel of a man, he doesn’t make any sort of sexist comment about girls going to the bathroom in groups, even though she, Skye, and Bobbi have been abandoning him all night. Instead, he just leans back in his seat and smiles at her.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll watch your drinks.”

“Trip!” Bobbi exclaims, sweeping in out of nowhere to kiss his cheek. “That’s so nice of you! But I’ve got a better idea.” She gives him a serious look. “How do you feel about setting a trap for any potential date rapists at this bar?”

Trip looks to be giving it serious thought; Jemma decides to leave them to it and follows Skye to the bathroom in the back.

“So, what is this about?” she asks, as Skye shoves the door open. Surprisingly, there’s no line and, it appears, no one in the bathroom at all. Maybe  _that’s_  what this is about; something is clearly amiss if one doesn’t have to wait thirty minutes for a turn in the loo.

“You have to see this,” Skye says, voice high with laughter. “Look, look.”

She drags Jemma to one of the stalls (a tight fit, with both of them) and points to a particular piece of graffiti above the trash can.

It’s a phone number, written in bright purple ink, and above it is written the words  _For a good time, call Grant Ward_.

She snorts, which sets Skye off, and the two of them stand there giggling like children for a while. Every time Jemma thinks she’s recovered, they make eye contact, and it sets her off again.

“Oh, man,” Skye gasps eventually. “I can’t breathe. This is the best thing ever.”

Jemma leans against her but keeps her eyes on the ceiling, trying to calm down. “You know it’s probably not him?”

Neither Grant nor Ward are particularly uncommon names, and the chances of them finding another Grant Ward are much, much higher than the chances of them stumbling across graffiti relating to  _their_ Ward in a random bar bathroom.

“I know,” Skye sighs. “But it’s still hysterical.”

“Oh, certainly,” Jemma agrees. “I mean, the thought of his  _face_ —!”

Skye freezes, eyes wide. “I have an idea.”

“Oh, no.” Jemma recognizes that face. “No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is  _no_.”

“Come on!” Skye wheedles. “Don’t you want to know whether this is him? Think of what we could do if we had his phone number! We could—we could—”

Jemma waits.

“Well, I can’t think of anything right now, but there are for sure hilarious possibilities! We  _need to know,_ Jemma. For  _science_.”

“For science?” she asks thoughtfully.

“For science,” Skye nods.

“Well.” Jemma bites her lip. “I mean. If it’s for  _science_ …”

“Great!” Skye says, and pulls out her phone. “Then we’re calling it.”

Without really knowing why, Jemma laughs. Skye tries to give her a stern face and totally fails.

“Shh,” she says. “I’m calling a good time!”

That does  _not_  help; Jemma claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggles as Skye dials the number off of the wall. She puts it on speaker, and the ringing echoes oddly in the otherwise silent room.

After three rings, the call is answered. “Hello?”

Skye and Jemma shriek with laughter, because that is  _actually Ward_. Mass-murdering, scary HYDRA badass Grant Ward has his number  _written on a bathroom stall_  in a bar in Nowhere, Mississippi. There is literally nothing in the world funnier than this.

“Oh my god,” Skye gasps. “Oh my god, this is  _amazing_!”

“…Skye?” Ward asks, clearly confused. “How did you get this number?”

“Oh, you know,” Jemma says, trying for an even tone. “Stumbled across it.”

Skye actually squeaks, leaning against Jemma for balance as she tries to catch her breath, and Jemma has to reach out to steady Skye’s phone before she drops it.

“Jemma?” Ward asks. He still sounds confused, which is a nice change from the weirdly seductive tone he’s been using on her since his escape from the Vault. “…Are you drunk?”

“Of course not!” she snaps, offended. “I’ll have you know I’ve only had three drinks!”

“Five,” Skye squeaks, and Jemma blinks at her.

“Really? But I’ve been keeping count!”

She nods. “You said the second and fourth cancelled each other out because—because color theory? I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. But Trip said alcohol doesn’t work that way. So you’ve had five.”

“Oh,” she frowns. “Then I guess I’d better stop, hadn’t I?” She pouts. “I wanted to try the purple one.”

Skye’s eyes dart to Ward’s number, and just like that they’re both laughing again.

“Yeah, you’re drunk,” Ward sighs. Jemma starts; she’d almost forgotten about calling him. “Where are you?”

“None of your beeswax,” Skye tells him. “And now that this is settled, I’m hanging up.”

“We’ll let you know if we’re in need of a good time,” Jemma adds—though she doesn’t know how coherent it is, as she dissolves back into giggles halfway through her sentence.

Skye hangs up on Ward’s confused, “What?” and tucks her phone away. It takes a few tries, as she’s shaking with laughter, but eventually she manages it.

It takes them a long time to stop laughing long enough to leave the bathroom.


	19. WWE Divas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo asked: "AOS/WWE Divas"

Things among the team have irrevocably shifted in the past year. There are tensions where before there were none, hurt feelings and secrets making complicated things which once were simple. Everything has changed.

…Well, almost everything.

Sunday finds Jemma and Skye squished together on one of the couches in the Playground’s lounge. Bobbi is seated at the end, and May is in an armchair next to them. They have drinks and snacks and have banned the men from the room for the duration of the program they’ve gathered to watch.

“Paige could get it,” Skye announces, passing Jemma the popcorn.

“Quite,” she agrees, accepting it happily.

“Paige?” Bobbi asks skeptically. “Come on. What about Naomi?”

“That’s a fair point,” Jemma acknowledges. “But I will raise you Natalya. Oooh, or Alicia.”

“They’re all gorgeous,” Skye decides. “And badass.”

“Super badass.”

“ _Totally_  badass.”

Bobbi and Jemma clink their drinks against Skye’s in agreement, and while May remains silent, there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Just for a while, it feels like old times.


	20. Avatar AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sapphireglyphs asked: "Avatar AU for Biospecialist because “That’s rough, buddy.” made me smile :D"

“There,” Jemma says, sitting back on her heels. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you,” the soldier says politely, examining his arm. He flexes his hand experimentally, then gives her a slight bow. “Your skill is as great as your beauty, Madam Waterbender.”

She blinks. “Ah…thank you?”

She’s saved from having to find a gracious way to excuse him by the sound of a throat clearing, and she turns to face the source (peripherally aware, as she does so, that the soldier she’s been treating has straightened to attention).

The source is Admiral Ward, who is currently sporting a very nasty cut down the side of his face, from his temple to his jaw. It’s clearly several hours old, and Jemma scrambles to her feet at once.

“Admiral,” she starts, scolding, and he holds up a hand, cutting her off.

“I know,” he says tiredly. “I got here as soon as I could. Are you free?”

“I am,” she confirms, motioning him towards the nearest exam pallet. Her other patient seems to disappear as soon as her back is turned; she doesn’t see him leave, but she hears the door close behind him.

“Did I hear him call you beautiful?”

“You did,” she says, fetching a fresh basin of water. It’s not truly necessary—her waterhealing has worked with sea water, rain water, and even (once, in very desperate circumstances) sweat—but she sees no reason not to take advantage of her available resources. “It was…unexpected.” She gives him a chiding glance. “Unlike your injury. What have I told you about waiting so long to seek treatment?”

The Admiral gives her a shrug as he settles onto the pallet. “Like I said, I came as soon as I could. I had to see to the fleet, first. We took some damage in the battle.” He frowns at the door. “He’s from one of the new ships, isn’t he?”

“I believe so, yes,” she agrees, somewhat absently. “From the  _Providence_ , I think.” She kneels in front of him and taps his cheek sternly. “Now, sit still, if you please.”

He obliges, remaining perfectly still as she calls up the water out of the basin and holds it over his cut. He closes his eyes as she works, and the bright glow of the healing water throws his cheekbones into sharp relief.

She thinks, not for the first time, that Admiral Ward is an incredibly attractive man.

The injury takes a while to heal. As she suspected, it’s hours old, and the first hints of infection have already begun to set in. She has to clear them out before she can actually heal the wound.

The Admiral, unlike the vast majority of his men, never fidgets. Nor does he stare. He remains motionless, back straight, hands resting on his thighs, breathing deep and even, as she works. She appreciates it, both for how much simpler it makes her job, and for the way he doesn’t treat her like some curious attraction to be studied.

The alliance between the Water Tribes and the Fire Nation is still new. Only one ship in twenty has an assigned Healer, and most of the Fire Nation troops have never seen waterhealing in action. Water _bending_ , certainly—the war saw to that—but not waterhealing.

She understands their fascination—she still finds herself transfixed by the less violent applications of firebending—but the staring is nonetheless unsettling. She’s glad to be spared it, with the Admiral.

It’s one of several very attractive qualities she’s noted in her time on his ship.

Eventually, her work is complete, and she returns the water to her basin with a surprising degree of reluctance.

“There,” she says quietly, shattering the comfortable silence that has fallen over her cabin, and stands. “All better.”

“Thank you,” the Admiral says, opening his eyes. He gives her a slight smile. “Sorry to bother you.”

“It wasn’t a bother,” she assures him earnestly. Perhaps  _too_  earnestly. She focuses all of her attention on carrying the basin back over to the sink, adding, “It is my job, after all.”

“Still,” he says, standing. He’s so tall; in the closed space of her cabin, he towers over her. “You’ve been healing my men for hours. I feel like I owe you something in exchange.”

“You do,” she reminds him. “A salary, which your Fire Lord generously pays me every week.”

“Something more,” he amends, with another half-smile. Troublingly, Jemma’s heart swoops in her chest like an iguana parrot.

“It’s really not necessary,” she says.

“It is,” he insists. He looks around her cabin, eyes falling on the untouched dinner tray on her desk. “You haven’t eaten?”

“I haven’t had the time,” she admits, startled by the sudden change in subject. Or what she  _thinks_  is a change in subject; his next sentence proves her wrong.

“Neither have I,” he says. “So. Would you care to join me for dinner in my cabin?”

Jemma is immediately flustered. Were she holding anything, she most certainly would have dropped it.

“Oh, no,” she says. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Please,” he says. “I insist.”

“Admiral—”

“Grant,” he interrupts, then grimaces apologetically. “I mean, you can call me Grant. If you like.”

Oh, dear. He is  _determined_  to fluster her, isn’t he?

“Grant, then,” she says, then falters. She has no idea what she was about to say. For lack of anything else, she offers, “And you’re welcome to call me Jemma.”

He smiles. “Jemma it is.”

Is she blushing? She thinks she’s blushing. She has no idea why.

“Jemma,” he repeats. “Would you  _please_  do me the honor of joining me for dinner?”

She doesn’t know what to make of the way he’s looking at her. There’s blood on her apron and, she’s fairly certain, soot in her hair, but he’s looking at her like—like—

“Yes,” she hears herself saying. “I’d love to, thank you.”

“Great,” he says, just as there’s a shout from somewhere down the corridor. He sighs. “I still have a few things to take care of. Meet me at my cabin in half an hour?”

That will give her time to wash her hair, thank goodness. “I’ll be there.”

“Great,” he says again, and then, “Excuse me.”

As the door closes behind him, Jemma is left with the distinct impression that something has shifted irrevocably.

She thinks, however, that it might be for the better.


	21. Does anyone know where I am?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "[text] “This is a mass text. Does anyone know where I am?” / Biospecialist please!"

The first time Jemma wakes, her head is pounding. Opening her eyes is a mistake; even the very dim lighting of the room is enough to send sharp spikes of agony along her nerves, and she only manages to bite back a whimper because she’s sure the noise would make her headache worse.

There’s a glass of water on the bedside table, and when she picks it up, she finds two aspirin behind it. She takes them gratefully, drains the glass, and lies back down, pulling the covers over her head.

She’s asleep again in seconds.

\---

The second time she wakes, her head isn’t hurting, but her stomach is turning unpleasantly. She keeps her eyes closed, taking deep, even breaths, until it settles.

She realizes, quite belatedly, that she’s hungover.

What did she do last night, exactly?

She remembers going out. She remembers a club. She does  _not_  remember coming home.

She remembers taking aspirin the first time she woke, and realization slowly filters in as she considers the memory. Something about the positioning of the bedside table…

Her eyes fly open.

This isn’t her room.

She sits up slowly, keeping the covers clutched to her chest. She’s horribly aware of her state of undress, wearing nothing but her undergarments, although there’s no soreness or stickiness or any other sort of indication that she engaged in drunken intercourse last night.  _That’s_  not nothing, but it does leave her with several unanswered and very pressing questions.

Where is she?

The room is large and airy and completely unfamiliar. It’s tasteful, done in shades of black and grey, and manages to imply an excess of money without being ostentatious. There are three doors, all closed, and all made of dark wood.

She’s entirely certain that she’s never been here before and equally certain that this is  _not_  a hotel room. Which means that, whatever else happened last night, she most likely went home with a stranger.

(She recalls Bobbi’s exultation to  _make good choices!_  and doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh or cry.)

She’s considering leaving the bed in search of her clothes (they must be around here somewhere) when the door clicks open, and her heart stops.

“You’re awake,” Ward says.

She’d like to make some scathing reply to his statement of the blindingly obvious, but fear has her by the throat. It’s been months since the last time she saw Ward—since she threatened his life as he was led out of the Playground in chains—and if she had been asked to choose a way to see him again (although honestly, she’d rather have gone the rest of her life without experiencing  _this_  particular reunion), waking up in his bed wearing nothing but a bra and panties would not have made the list. At all.

“Calm down, Simmons,” he chides, leaning against the door frame. “There’s no need to look so scared. Your virtue is safely intact, I promise.”

She clutches the covers a little closer. “Where are my clothes?”

“Over there.” He jerks his chin towards the chair in the corner. “I told you you wouldn’t wanna wake up without them, but you insisted. Something about being too old to wake up wearing last night’s dress?”

She rolls her eyes. Of all the inside jokes for her to fixate on last night, it had to be the one that left her in her underwear. Typical.

She wants desperately to fetch her clothes, but there is  _no way_  she’s getting out of this bed while Ward is looking. Even though, she realizes, his words certainly imply that he was present when she got undressed, and therefore has probably seen her in her underwear already.

Still. She’s not moving, not while he’s here. But she’s hardly going to  _ask_  him to leave—there’s no reason to broadcast her discomfort and, in fact, plenty of reason  _not_  to. It would be just like him to stick around longer solely for the sake of making her uncomfortable.

“What am I doing here?” she asks instead. “How did you even find me?”

“You’re here sleeping off a bender, as far as I can tell,” he says. “And as for how I found you…” He smirks and tugs his mobile out of his pocket, lobbing it across the room to land on the bed next to her. “You texted me.”

“I did  _not_ ,” she denies, scandalized. All the alcohol in the  _world_  couldn’t render her drunk enough to think texting Ward a good idea.

“See for yourself,” he invites, nodding at the phone.

She readjusts her grip on the blankets, pinning them to her chest with one arm while she picks up his phone with her other hand. She finds it unlocked, and sure enough, his most recent message is from her (from  _Jemma_ , actually, and she’s not sure which is more disconcerting: that she’s in his contacts at all or that she’s in his contacts under her  _first name_ ).

 _This is a mass text_ , she reads.  _Does anyone know where I am?_

Oh, dear. She really was  _incredibly_  drunk last night, wasn’t she?

“Anything could have happened to you,” Ward says, all innocence. “I was doing you a favor.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?” she asks skeptically, dropping the phone back onto the bed. “With no ulterior motives at all?”

“Not a one,” he claims. “Just looking out for my old team. They’d hate to lose you, you know.”

She’s nearly certain that the words are deliberately chosen to echo Coulson’s—the scolding he gave her in his office after she jumped from the Bus.

After Ward caught her.

She draws her legs up under her and wraps the covers more firmly around herself, feeling unaccountably more exposed.

“In that case, thank you for your assistance,” she says. “And now, I’ll just—get dressed and be on my way.”

He sucks in a breath between his teeth. “Yeah. About that.”

“What?” she asks, with a sinking feeling.

“You’re not leaving,” he says, with an almost apologetic smile.

She swallows. “I’m not?”

“No,” he confirms. “You’re not.” He shrugs. “Nothing personal, you understand. But I’ve been in need of leverage and as far as that goes, you’re pretty much perfect.” He smiles pleasantly. “So, you’re gonna be enjoying my hospitality for a little while longer.”

That…is troubling on a number of levels.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any ulterior motives,” she reminds him.

“I didn’t,” he insists. “But one good turn deserves another, don’t you think? I saved you from any number of possible unpleasant fates, and now you’re gonna repay me.”

“By serving as leverage,” she says.

“Yep.”

She fears the answer, but she still has to ask. “Against whom?”

“Oh, not HYDRA, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. “I’ve heard they’re looking for you and—truth be told—I could get a lot out of them in exchange for handing you over.” He smiles. “But I’ve moved on from HYDRA. So you don’t need to worry about them.”

That still leaves her with quite a lot to worry about. For one thing, not HYDRA certainly implies SHIELD, but she doesn’t know why he wouldn’t just say so. Why promise not to hand her over to HYDRA instead of simply telling her he intends to ransom her to SHIELD?

She has the unsettling feeling that there’s something she’s missing.

And that’s not the only unsettling thing.

She’s still horribly conscious of her state of undress, of the fact that this is almost definitely his room (now that she’s looking for them, she can see personal touches here and there, things that don’t belong in a spare room). Waking up in his bed in her underthings has implications she’d rather not consider.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Simmons,” he promises, smiling like he knows exactly what she’s thinking and it amuses him greatly. “You’ll be leaving here in the same condition you arrived—if a little more sober. You don’t have to worry about  _that_ , either.”

“What  _do_  I need to worry about, then?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He grins. “Yet. I’ll get back to you on that.”

That is  _not_ encouraging.

“How long do you intend to keep me here?” she presses.

“As long as I have to,” is his unhelpful reply. Then, before she can ask any more questions (and she has hundreds of them), he continues, “Now, as lovely a picture as you make in my bed, I’m guessing you don’t wanna spend all day there?”

“No,” she agrees, heart picking up a notch. “I don’t.”

“Didn’t think so,” he says. “And that’s fine. You can’t leave the apartment—and I know you’re smarter than to even try—but you can explore it to your heart’s content.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “You still hungover?”

She suddenly realizes that those aspirin must have been from him, and has no idea what to make of it.

“A little,” she says weakly.

“Well, you’re welcome to take a shower, if you like,” he says, gesturing vaguely to one of the closed doors. “And there’s an outfit for you in there, if you want clean clothes. Might be a little big—Kara’s not as small as you are—but at least they’re not covered in glitter.”

She has…no idea where to start with that. “Kara?”

“My partner,” he explains helpfully. “She’s looking forward to meeting you.” His smile grows as he flicks his eyes over her, as though he can see through the covers to her state of partial nudity. “But I figured you’d wanna get dressed first.”

“Yes,” she agrees automatically, mind stuck on the word  _partner_. “I would.”

“Great,” he says, pushing off the door frame. “There’s lunch out here, when you’re done. Take your time.” He starts to turn away, then pauses. “Oh. Almost forgot.”

“What—?” She shrinks back, hands fisting in the blankets, as he approaches the bed, but all he does is grab his mobile from where she dropped it.

“Can’t leave without this,” he says, holding it up. “I’ve got some calls to make.”

Now, why doesn’t she like the sound of that?

One thing is certain, she thinks, as Ward leaves without another word. Assuming she makes it out of this mess alive?

She is  _never_  letting Skye take her drinking again.


	22. I am not sorry (Crack pairing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "35. “This is exactly what it looks like and I am not sorry.” Jemma and a crack pairing! =D"

“Hey, Simmons, have you seen—holy fuck!”

Jemma freezes, digging her fingers into the shoulders she’s clinging to. She can feel a slow flush of mortification building at the base of her throat, which should make a nice accompaniment to the various love bites already scattered there.

The hands on her hips tighten, putting paid to any thoughts of climbing out of the lap she’s perched in. Which is just as well; her skirt is rucked up around her thighs, and there’s no way she could possibly stand without giving Skye a show.

Skye who is still frozen in the doorway, gaping.

“I don’t—what?” she asks, helplessly.

“Skye,” Jemma says, in her best even tone. “This isn’t…”

Wait. Exactly why is she so embarrassed? They’re two attractive, consenting adults. They have nothing to be ashamed of. (Other, perhaps, than his failure to lock the door when he surprised her earlier. They’ll certainly be having words about  _that_.)

“Actually, you know what?” she decides. “This is  _exactly_  what it looks like, and I am not sorry.”

“You—I—” Skye shakes her head, looking faint. “I’m just—gonna go. But we are  _definitely_  talking about this later, Jemma.”

She gives Jemma a half-stern, half-freaked out look, then turns and leaves, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Jemma clears her throat. “Well. That was something.”

“Something,” he echoes, deadpan. “Doesn’t anyone on your damn team know how to knock?”

No, not really. Well aware that she’s just as guilty as the rest of the team in that regard, she decides to dodge the question.

“And who was it that forgot to lock the door, hm?” she asks archly. “Some spy you are, leaving doors open all willy-nilly.”

His face remains blank, but at  _willy-nilly_ , she sees some of those pained lines he always gets around his mouth when she says something patently ridiculous—which is half the reason she says this sort of thing, honestly. She beams.

“I’m gonna be hearing about this,” he says, resigned. It’s not a question.

“Oh, absolutely,” she agrees. “For ages.”

He sighs. “You might be more trouble than you’re worth, Simmons.”

“I’m happy to prove you wrong,” she says, then slides quickly off of his lap. She needs to go do damage control, because there is little to no chance that Skye will keep what she just saw to herself. “Or I would be, had you locked the door,  _Fury_.”


	23. Skyeward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo asked: "Skyward 30"
> 
> _(30. “I do believe that woman is planning to shoot me again.”)_

“So, here’s the deal,” Skye says. “I still hate you. We  _all_  still hate you. Literally nobody has forgotten how often you’ve screwed us over—or that you kidnapped me. Twice.” She takes a deep breath. “But…we need your help.”

Mind racing, Grant leans back in his seat and mouths a thank you to the waitress as she places his pancakes down in front of him.

“Well, you know I’d do anything for you, Skye,” he says, once he feels the silence has stretched on long enough to make her uncomfortable. “But—if you’ll forgive me for sounding paranoid—how do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“That’s your style, not ours,” Skye says. “We wouldn’t be wasting our time on you if we weren’t desperate.”

Well, that’s fair. He drums his fingers on the table, weighing his options.

Why not?

“All right,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” she grates out. He smiles to himself, amused; that sounded like it hurt.

“So,” he says. “Where can I meet you?”

“Noon tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll text you the coordinates. Don’t be late.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t.”

“Whatever,” is her parting shot. Then she hangs up, and Grant returns his phone to his pocket with a smile.

“You know,” he says to Kara, thoughtfully, as he picks up his fork, “I do believe that woman is planning to shoot me again.”


	24. sometimes/erase myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Challenge: do #40 from your follower meme with sometimes (I find it hard to believe) and erase myself and let go (start it over again) but do it without any dialogue."
> 
> _(40. Give me two of my stories and I’ll transport one character from one to the other )_

Bizarrely enough, for Grant, the most upsetting thing about being trapped in another universe is _not_ that he’s trapped in another universe.

It’s a weird universe on a number of levels. No timers and,even worse, no soulmates. Oh, they’re familiar with the concept, but whereas in his universe it’s a proven scientific fact, in this one it’s seen as a romantic notion—something most people don’t believe in. He can’t even verbalize how horrifying that is to him, that these people go through life without even the hope of ever forming a soulbond.

It’s also a universe where HYDRA is out of the shadows and SHIELD has been eradicated. Or so the United Nations claims; he has his doubts, since HYDRA is obviously facing  _some_  form of opposition, or they would’ve taken over by now.

But just like being trapped here, HYDRA’s status and the lack of soulmates aren’t the worst things about this universe.

No, that honor goes to the fact that this universe’s version of him is a  _twisted, irredeemable psychopath_.

It’s hard to wrap his head around it. Grant knows he’s not a perfect man, and for the most part, he’s okay with that. He’s got his regrets—who doesn’t?—but overall, he doesn’t think he’s so bad.

This universe’s Grant? He’s  _insane_. He has to be. It’s the only explanation for his behavior.

He wonders if it’s something to do with the soulmate difference—if the lack of a soulbond means he just doesn’t have a soul—or if growing up without the promise of future happiness installed on his wrist twisted him beyond recognition.

But it’s just a thought exercise, really. The truth is, it doesn’t matter what made his doppelganger the man he is.

Either way, Grant is going to have to kill him.

He gives it a few hours to be sure, but it’s definitely necessary, for one very good reason: Jemma.

This universe’s Jemma is just as different from his Jemma as his double is from him—except in Jemma’s case, he’s pretty sure he knows why.

Namely, the fact that she’s married to a psychopath.

It was comforting, at first, to find that his double was married to Jemma’s—that even in a universe without soulmates, they still found their way to each other.  _That_  feeling only lasted about ten seconds, though: right up to the point that he actually  _looked_  at them, and figured out the way of things.

The way of things being that his double kidnapped Jemma and is holding her prisoner.

It’s unbearable. He can’t stand to look at his double  _or_  at Jemma; even the sight of them—of his double’s smug grin, of the bruised look in Jemma’s eyes, the way she cowers away from both of them, the defensive hunch to her shoulders—sparks the berserker rage like nothing before ever has.

His double actually gets off on scaring Jemma, and has obviously been doing a lot of it in the brief time he’s held her prisoner. Worst of all, he expects Grant to feel the same. He’s made a few insinuations that left Jemma white with terror and Grant actually light-headed from fury.

He’s going to kill him. He is  _absolutely_  going to kill him.

He just needs to wait for the right moment.

(The right moment, of course, being the one in which Jemma isn’t at risk of getting caught in the crossfire.)


	25. Afterlife AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "20 for any episode in season 2."
> 
> _(20. Episode AU: Give me an episode and I’ll change something)_
> 
> I want to preface this by saying that I love love LOVE what Jemma did in Afterlife, I was so proud and I was cheering for her and it is SO NICE not to see her sidelined. That said, there was something that I really really wanted to see happen–or, more accurately, see said–which did not happen. So I’m having Jemma make it happen.

Fitz has resolved to leave, which leaves Jemma in something of a bind.

She  _can’t_  leave, and not only because she has nowhere else to go. Coulson received confirmation weeks ago that HYDRA is hunting her, intending to see her punished for her spying, and to leave the protection of the Playground with no one but Fitz as back-up…

Recent fracturing of their friendship aside, Jemma loves Fitz and would trust him with her life. She would die for him and knows, with complete (horrible, unfortunately first-hand) certainty, that he would do the same for her.

But she would really rather avoid testing that  _again_  unless she absolutely has to.

And even if it  _were_  safe, there’s the matter of their team. May is imprisoned and Skye and Coulson are missing; to retreat into civilian life without assuring herself of their well-being would be unconscionable. She doesn’t hold Fitz’s decision against him, but for herself, she’s simply not capable of making the same choice.

So she can’t leave.

Unfortunately, the enemy—the most recent and most present enemy, that is, as opposed to their numerous others—seem to be getting the wrong idea about it.

“I’m glad you’ve chosen to stay with us, Jemma,” Gonzales says. He’s made himself at home in Coulson’s office, and while she knows it’s a silly thing to fixate on, she finds it irritates her greatly. “You’re a brilliant woman, and we can do a lot of good with your help.”

Bobbi is standing behind him, as she often is.  _That_  is irritating, too. As is the smile she gives Jemma, like she’s happy for her. As though they’re still friends!

Bobbi hasn’t the right to smile at her any longer. She may not have tried to kill Jemma ( _yet_ ), but she’s just as much of a traitor as Ward.

“There’s just one thing I need to know,” Gonzales continues, and Jemma drags her eyes back to him. “Before we can give you back your lab.”

“And what’s that?” she asks.

“I need to know whether you’re loyal to SHIELD,” he says. “Or to Coulson.”

An easy question.

“I’m loyal to SHIELD,” she says. “Of course.”

“That’s good to hear,” he says, with a slight smile. “In that case, your first assignment—”

“Oh, I won’t be working for you,” she interrupts.

Gonzales’ smile fades. “You said—”

“I am loyal to SHIELD,” she repeats, coolly. “But  _you_  are not SHIELD.”

“Jemma,” he sighs, looking oh so disappointed in her, and she  _hates_  him.

Even had he not sent Bobbi and Mack to spy on them, even had he not spent the past two days referring to Skye as an  _it_ , even had he not attacked and taken over the Playground, Jemma would hate Gonzales for this alone—for the sheer nerve he has to adopt this paternal manner towards her.

As a prodigy, Jemma is accustomed to being the youngest person in the room.

At the Academy, it was by a few years, but before that, at university, it was by a decade or more. She grew up as the only child in a room full of adults, and she’s familiar with the affect it has on people. She’s familiar with the way people struggle with the dichotomy between her undeniable brilliance and the role that they mentally assign to young girls,  _and_  with the way it influences how they interact with her.

She’s become inured to being treated with condescension: like an empty-headed child, with no value beyond her  _astonishing_  ability to retain scientific fact, or a performing monkey, well-trained but utterly incapable of independent thought. People— _many_  people—treat her as though she has no intelligence at all beyond the scientific, like some sort of idiot savant.

She’s used to this, to classmates—professors—superiors who think that a smile and a kind word will be enough to gratify her to them, who believe that paying an empty compliment will sway her to do as they wish. She’s had her entire life to become accustomed to it, and she has.

But it has  _never_  stopped infuriating her.

“You aren’t,” she says, and she’s impressed by how calm she sounds, by the way none of her anger makes it into her voice. “Calling yourselves SHIELD doesn’t  _make_ you SHIELD. Director Fury  _chose_ Coulson to succeed him, which makes this operation— _our_  operation—the only genuine continuation of SHIELD. “

“Director Fury was compromised, young lady,” Gonzales says sternly, and she twitches with the urge to strike him. “ _We_  are the real SHIELD, and we—”

“SHIELD is a principle,” she cuts in. “An idea. A  _duty_. We have a  _duty_  to protect people, to stand as a line of defense between the innocent and those who would do them harm. And that is  _exactly_  what we—the  _actual_  SHIELD—have been doing. What have  _you_  done,  _Mister_ Gonzales, but send people in to spy on us and hide in the shadows, waiting to strike?”

There’s a long moment of silence as everyone—Jemma included—considers her phrasing. Bobbi has gone pale.

“Well,” Jemma says finally, and laughs humorlessly. “Doesn’t that sound familiar.”

“You go too far,” Gonzales snaps. “Comparing us to HYDRA is out of line, Agent Simmons.”

Apparently the trick to being afforded her title is to enrage people. She’ll have to remember that.

“Is it?” she asks. “What have you done, then? We’ve spent the past year fighting HYDRA with little manpower and even fewer resources.  _You_  have the numbers to send not one, but  _two_  agents undercover among us—to say nothing of your ability to invade and occupy our base. Where have you been, with your superior strength? We’ve lost  _friends_.”

Her voice cracks a little on the final word, because she can’t help thinking of Trip. He’s been in so many of her nightmares of late, carried along in a  _wheelbarrow_  because he’s in  _pieces_.

He was already injured when he went down into the city. Where was Gonzales’ SHIELD—full of healthy, fit agents—then, when a good man sacrificed his life?

“Simmons,” Bobbi starts, and Jemma silences her with a single look. She’s ashamed of herself, Bobbi is.

As well she should be.

Gonzales is swelling with quiet rage, but Jemma’s not done.

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing, Mister Gonzales,” she quotes evenly. “And that’s exactly what you’ve done. Nothing.”

She has plenty more to say, but Gonzales has apparently reached the end of his patience. Pity; she really thought he’d last longer.

“That’s enough,” he barks, then takes a deep breath and gentles his voice. “It’s obvious you’re upset. You’re attached to Coulson and it’s clouding your judgment.” He breathes in again, slowly. “You need some time to cool down—to think.”

“Do I?” she asks serenely. His jaw clenches.

“Perhaps some time with Agent May will help you see things more clearly.”

Bobbi straightens, alarmed. “Sir—”

“We do what we must, Agent Morse,” he tells her, and she grimaces. “Now, escort Agent Simmons to Vault D.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jemma informs him, as Bobbi hesitates, torn. “I know the way.”

She sweeps out of Coulson’s—always Coulson’s, never Gonzales’—office, Bobbi hurrying to follow, and even though she’s about to be locked in a very small cell for an indeterminate amount of time, she can’t help but smile to herself.

She thinks Skye would be proud of that exit.


	26. the uprising (redux): what didn't happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "10 for the uprising (redux)?"
> 
> _(10. Give me one of my verses and I’ll tell you one thing that didn’t happen, but could’ve_
> 
> Note: Okay, I am SUPER HAPPY that nonnie asked for this. In the first draft of the uprising (redux), Grant, Trip, and Bobbi didn’t actually go to Portland to meet up with the others–it would’ve taken too long to get there and Coulson was impatient, so he had Jemma send them on to Providence to wait for them.
> 
> I wrote out about 2,000 words along those lines, and then realized that it wouldn’t work, solely because Trip’s presence with Grant and Bobbi instead of Coulson and co. meant that Coulson was going to Portland with no one but Fitz and Jemma for backup. Which, I mean, there’s impatient and there’s stupid.
> 
> So I had to change it, and I was very sad because I really liked the section I had to change. I managed to adapt some of the dialogue, but for the most part I just had to leave it. BUT I kept it, because I always keep this stuff, and now I have the excuse to share it!

“Good,” she says. “Now, I really have to go. I’m going to hand you over to Agent Koenig, who runs the base, and he’s going to take down your Quinjet’s security signal so he can input it into the base’s system. That way you can land directly in the hangar.”

“Yeah,” he says, and stands to move to the cockpit to check the signal. He’s pretty sure he has it memorized, but he doesn’t want to risk it—not after such an emotional day. “Be safe. Please.”

“I will,” she promises. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he says.

—

They make it the rest of the way to Providence without any more phonecalls, which Grant is of two minds about. On the one hand, no news is generally good news. On the other, his wife is currently on an op to bring in an escaped convict who is most likely a very dangerous psychopath, considering the facility from which he escaped (and Grant’s cursing himself for not getting some detail on the guy; that’s what happens when he lets his emotion blind him—he gets sloppy) and he’d appreciate some contact.

Bobbi and Trip, although sympathetic, both suggest that he should chill. He suggests that they should go fuck themselves. It definitely does  _not_  devolve into a childish shoving match, and that’s the story they’re sticking to.

As promised, they’re let directly into the hangar when they reach Providence. They’re surprised to find it, and the base itself, completely empty.

“Guess Coulson pulled out all the stakes for this guy,” Trip says, a little uneasily, as they walk the empty halls. “Brought the whole team.”

“Lives were at stake,” Grant mutters, a little bitterly, and Bobbi nudges him.

“Lighten up,” she says. “Jemma has just as much right to risk her life as you have to risk yours. Remember how we talked about this when she joined her team in the first place?”

“Yeah, she joined a field team and then SHIELD fell,” he says.

“SHIELD did  _not_  fall because Jemma joined a field team,” Trip says. “Hell, she’s lucky she did. If she hadn’t, she’d have been at the Sandbox when this shit happened, and I haven’t heard it said what happened there, have you?”

“No,” he says. He knows where Trip is going with that; if they still had the Sandbox, it definitely would have made Jemma’s list of good news. And he knows he’s being irrational. He’s just…worried. He’s allowed to worry about his wife.

“You know what you need?” Bobbi asks.

“A more sympathetic team?” he suggests.

“Good guess,” she says. “But no. You need something to eat.”

“What is it with you two and forcing food on me?” he asks.

“You get cranky when your blood sugar’s low,” Trip says wisely. “It’s either make you eat or punch you in the face.”

“You mean it’s either make me eat or get your ass kicked,” he corrects.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Ward,” Bobbi snorts. Then she looks around. “So…which one of the twenty doors we’ve passed so far lead to the kitchen, do you think?”

“One way to find out,” Trip says, and opens the nearest door. “Nope. Bathroom.”

They go down the hall, opening every door they pass. Bobbi is the one who finds the kitchen, but even as her voice reaches him (alerting him of that fact), he passes an already-open door, which leads to a bathroom. But it’s not the function of the room that catches his attention, it’s the contents. Specifically, the picture hanging on the wall.

There are pictures hanging on walls all over this base, all of them carefully framed and lit to look, at first glance, like windows. And every single one of them is of a daytime scene. Except this one.

This one is also the only one letting out a strange whirring noise, and that’s enough to get him into the room. Call it curiosity (or just a spy’s instinct to gather information on literally  _everything_ ), but now that he knows there’s a problem, he can’t move on until he figures out what it is.

The problem, upon closer inspection of the picture, is immediately obvious. There’s a screwdriver wedged into the corner, which is blocking a mechanism that’s trying to change the picture—presumably to a daytime scene. Curious, he removes the screwdriver, and steps back to see if he can determine  _why_  someone deliberately jammed this particular picture.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not for a picture with the words WRIGHT IS HYDRA carved into it to scroll into view.

He stares at it for half a second, stunned, then swears and leaves the room at a run, calling for Trip and Bobbi as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Focused on dialing Jemma’s number, he nearly crashes right into them as they exit what must be the kitchen.

“What?” Trip asks.

“Found a message carved into a picture,” Grant says, as he hits  _call_  and brings the phone to his ear. “Wright is HYDRA.”

“Fuck,” Bobbi says succinctly.

Jemma doesn’t answer until the fifth ring, and it’s the longest few seconds of his life.

“Grant,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m a little—”

“Are you safe?” he interrupts. Her slightly impatient tone definitely suggests that she is, but there’s no way he can  _not_  ask.

“Yes,” she says, this time more than  _slightly_  impatiently. “Did you call just to—?”

“Is Wright with you?” he interrupts again.

“Wright?” she asks, thrown. “No, he’s at the…” She trails off, and when she speaks again, all of the impatience is gone, replaced by worry. “You must be at the base by now. Wright isn’t there?”

“No, he’s not,” he confirms. “What  _is_  here is a picture with the words  _Wright is HYDRA_  carved into it.”

Jemma is silent for a long moment.

“What about Skye, May, and Koenig?” she asks eventually. “Are they—what do they have to say about this?”

“They’re not here,” he says, forcing himself not to think about the fact that Coulson apparently didn’t take  _any_  of his field-qualified agents on this op of his. “Jemma, this base is completely deserted.”

“Oh, no,” she says. There’s some muffled conversation, and then she speaks again, voice urgent. “We have to take down Daniels. We’ll leave as soon as we can and call you on the way. In the meantime, the base has a very serious security system. Please check it and piece together what you can of what happened.”

“Will do,” he says. “Be safe.”

“You, too,” she says. “I love you.”

She hangs up before he can say it back, which is unsurprising, considering the urgency of the situation. He returns his phone to his pocket and turns his attention to Trip and Bobbi, who are both waiting impatiently.

“Wright isn’t with them,” he says. “He’s supposed to be here, along with Skye, May, and Koenig. Jemma suggested we check out base security, see what we can find.”

“Not a bad idea,” Trip nods. “Back to opening doors, I guess.”

“I know Wright’s good,” Bobbi says, as they set to doing exactly that. “But I can’t see him taking down May.”

“True,” Grant agrees. “But I don’t see her leaving a message in a picture and running instead of taking _him_  down.”

Unfortunately, the security room, when they find it, doesn’t shed any light on the subject. All of the monitors are displaying static, and a quick check proves that the cameras  _and_  the communication lines have all been cut.

He and Trip set to repairing them as Bobbi goes through the computers to see what she can find. They’re not expecting much, but, surprisingly, she does get something.

“Check this out,” she says. “Looks like there’s a camera in the hangar that’s on a separate system. Motion-activated. Wright must not have known about it.”

“Did it get anything?” Grant asks, as he and Trip stand to face the monitors.

“Yep,” Bobbi says. “Two things, even.”

The first video is of May, walking down the cargo ramp of what he recognizes as Coulson’s plane. She’s dressed in cold weather gear and carrying a duffle bag, and she’s alone.

“Base security log has her leaving through the front door a few minutes later,” Bobbi adds. “Just her. No one else.”

“Okay,” Trip says, crossing his arms. “So that’s May accounted for. And since she wouldn’t leave the other two alone with a HYDRA plant, it must have been before Wright showed his hand.”

“And the other thing?” he asks.

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting,” Bobbi says.

The second video is of Wright and a woman who must be Skye, going up the ramp hand in hand. Then the ramp rises behind them and the video ends.

“The plot thickens,” Trip muses. “No sign of this Koenig guy?”

“Nope,” Bobbi says. “These are it.”

“Okay, the hangar door and the front door are the only ways out,” Grant says. They’ve discovered that much from their review of the security system. “May took the front door. Wright and Skye took the Bus—”

“The Bus?” Trip interrupts.

“That’s what they call their plane,” he says. “The Bus.”

Bobbi frowns. “…Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says impatiently. “They just do. The  _point_  is, either Koenig’s hiding from us, or Wright crossed him off and stashed his body somewhere before they left.”

“What are we thinking on Skye?” Trip asks. “She and Wright were looking pretty cozy, and if he killed Koenig but left  _her_  alive…”

“What do you know about her?” Bobbi asks. She’s slumped back in the desk chair, ankles crossed with her feet resting on the desk, and she drums her fingers on the armrest as she speaks. “Do you think she’d go for HYDRA?”

Grant shrugs. “I’ve never met her. I know that she and Jemma are good friends, that she used to be a hacker for the Rising Tide, and that she decided to become a SHIELD agent after Coulson forcibly recruited her on the team’s first mission.”

“ _Forcibly_  recruited her?” Bobbi asks.

“Kidnapped her out of a van,” he clarifies.

“As you do,” Trip mutters. “You know, there’s one thing we haven’t mentioned.”

“You mean the possibility that  _Skye_  is the one who’s HYDRA, and she left that message to throw us off?” Bobbi asks.

“That’s the one.”

“It’s possible,” Grant agrees. “But then the question would be, is Wright in on it with her and she double-crossed him? Or did she trick him into leaving?”

Trip scrubs a hand over his face. “All right. We’re not getting any answers standing around guessing. I say we hunt down this Koenig guy—or his corpse.”

“Yeah,” Bobbi agrees, and swings her feet off of the desk to stand. “Whether he’s dead or alive—he’ll tell us a lot.”

“Keep an eye out for any more hidden messages,” Grant suggests, as they leave the security center. “This is starting to feel like some kind of mystery novel.”

—

There are no more hidden messages (at least, not that they find), but Trip  _does_  find Koenig. Or, to be more precise, his corpse. It’s stuffed in a vent in a storage room, and once they get it out, the cause of death is pretty clear.

“Check out that angle of infliction,” Bobbi says. “No way Skye’s tall enough to pull that off.”

“Which answers one question,” Trip says. “So, here’s what I think. Koenig gets tipped off to Wright’s loyalties somehow. Wright kills him and stashes him in the closet. But he knows we’re on the way, and sooner or later the body’s going to get discovered. So he makes up some excuse to get Skye out of here—but not before she finds the body and, having no other way to communicate with us, leaves the message on the picture.”

“She goes with him because she has no reason to refuse,” Bobbi picks up. “If he’s a friend, then why wouldn’t she go with him? If she says no, tries to fight him, then he figures out she’s on to him, probably crosses her off, too. She’s trapped.”

“And playing nice,” Grant concludes. “Trying to keep herself alive long enough for rescue instead of making a stand and getting herself killed.”

They stand there, considering Koenig’s body in silence, for a long moment.

“Smart,” Bobbi says finally. “I mean, a  _here’s where we’re going_  message would have been more useful than a  _Wright is HYDRA_ , but…”

“She was short on time, and, assuming we’re right, she managed to trick a specialist into thinking that nothing was wrong,” Trip finishes. “Not bad.”


	27. I would really appreciate it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghaziak asked: "21. [text] “I would really appreciate it if you would stop texting my girlfriend.”/“I would really appreciate it if you would stop cock blocking me.” --- Biospecialist. Please and thank you! :)"

Grant loves it when Jemma performs autopsies.

There are actually several reasons for it—for one thing, her enthusiasm about gross things like internal organs and bile and mysterious, oozing substances never stops being adorable, no matter how long he’s had to get used to it—but the main one is the fact that everyone on the team is so completely squeamish. None of them are willing to stick around while Jemma cuts open a corpse, no matter how important the cause, which means that it’s the only time that he’s  _guaranteed_  to have her to himself.

(Well, himself and a dead body, but unlike the team, he’s not squeamish. He doesn’t mind.)

His reintegration into the team is going fairly well—it’s actually ahead of schedule—but they haven’t stopped being suspicious of his intentions yet. They go out of their ways to make sure he’s never alone with Jemma on sheer principle, like they think he’s going to whip out a portable brainwashing machine and reprogram her the moment they turn their backs, and the paranoia would be hilarious if it weren’t so annoying.

It took him years, but he finally won her over again—and as himself, this time. It would be nice if they could have some time alone to get more  _physically_  reacquainted. He’s sure an orgasm or two (or thirty-seven; he’s kept track of all the opportunities they’ve missed since he rejoined the team, and he intends to make them up, with interest) will break down the last of her defenses and get her past this silly insistence that they try  _dating_  again before going back to being married.

As far as he’s concerned, they never stopped. She’s his wife and has been for nearly eight years now. But she started calling him her  _ex_ -husband while they were on opposing sides, and even though they never  _actually_  divorced, she’s been treating it like they did.

Still, after years of Jemma addressing him by their last name as if she didn’t share it, it’s a relief to be back to Grant, even if it’s accompanied by the title of boyfriend instead of husband. So he’ll continue to respect her wishes and call her his girlfriend, no matter how ridiculous he thinks it is. (He thinks it’s _really_  ridiculous.)

Anyway, the point is, he really wants sex. Like, a lot. It has been literal years since the last time he saw Jemma naked, let alone touched her, and that’s just  _wrong_. But until they rectify that, he’s happy for whatever spare moment alone he can get with her.

Which is why he so enjoys it when she performs autopsies, because apparently the team’s squeamishness outweighs their paranoia, and they always make themselves scarce before the first incision.

She’s halfway through a detailed account of one of the missions she took part in while he was the enemy—and he, in turn, is halfway through planning Coulson’s very bloody but entirely accidental (or so it will appear) death—when her phone suddenly chimes with an incoming text alert.

She’s elbow deep in today’s corpse, and she frowns down at her hands thoughtfully.

“Could you check that, please, darling?” she requests.

He has to suppress a grin at the endearment; anything is better than hearing her call him Ward, but he does love the way her accent wraps around the word  _darling_. She’s just…adorable.

“Sure,” he agrees easily, and reaches into the pocket of her lab coat to pull out her phone. If his hands happen to wander a bit in the process…well, who could blame him? And all Jemma does is roll her eyes, so clearly she doesn’t mind.

Actually, it suddenly occurs to him that there are some interesting possibilities to be explored in this situation. Jemma’s movements are restricted by the work she’s doing and the need to be delicate; she’s not exactly tied down, but it’s as close as he’s going to be getting her to it while they’re surrounded by a team just  _waiting_  to burst through the door and accuse him of any number of crimes, from kicking puppies to killing an entire committee’s worth of senators.

(Which is just insulting. He would never kick a puppy.)

But Jemma is giving him an expectant look, so he files those possibilities away for later and unlocks her phone.

His good mood is immediately soured.

“Well?” Jemma prompts.

“It’s from Lorenzo,” he informs her, and he sounds sulky even to his own ears. But he can hardly be blamed for it; he’s been trying to get Jemma to agree to let him take care of this asshole for  _months_ , and she keeps refusing. “He wants to know if you’re free tomorrow night.”

Lorenzo is one of Jemma’s lab techs, and he either has a) no sense of self-preservation at all, or b) a _lot_  of faith in Jemma’s ability to protect him, because he’s been hitting on her for years, or so Grant’s been informed. And the reaffirmation of Grant’s place in her life hasn’t appeared to make a dent in his efforts.

If the guy had only been putting moves on Jemma while Grant was still HYDRA, it would be one thing. He’d still be angry, and it would still take effort to refrain from inflicting serious harm on Lorenzo, but it wouldn’t be as big of a deal. After all, Jemma was insisting they were over (even though they  _definitely_ were not), and Lorenzo had every reason to think she was available.

Now, though? Everyone at the Playground knows that Grant and Jemma are together (he made sure of it), and Lorenzo’s persistence in pursuing Grant’s wife (or girlfriend, whatever) is  _really_  pissing him off. He thinks he deserves some serious credit for his restraint; even Hunter (Jemma’s new BFF, who does not like Grant  _at all_ —and he thought Fitz was hard to win over) seems impressed.

Jemma, however, keeps insisting that Lorenzo is harmless and undeserving of punishment.

“Hm,” Jemma says, weighing the corpse’s liver in one hand. She gives Grant a playful smile. “What do you think? Am I free?”

“No,” he says at once. “You aren’t.”

“Aren’t I?” she asks. “I don’t recall making any plans.”

“That’s because your—our—team is full of paranoid freaks who keep interrupting my attempts to get you alone,” he reminds her helpfully. She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling; hearing him refer to the team as  _theirs_  always makes her happy.

“And you think you’re going to succeed tomorrow night?” she asks.

“No,” he admits. “But it’s Skye’s night to follow us, so I thought we’d do something really sappy and romantic just to horrify her.”

Even before his cover was broken, Skye has always been (loudly) mystified by the relationship between Grant and Jemma. Even the slightest bit of shared affection freaks her out.

Grant’s cover was embarrassed by it. The real Grant has fun taking advantage of it.

Jemma bites her lip thoughtfully. (He manfully resists the urge to offer to bite it for her.)

“You drive a hard bargain,” she says, and sighs, feigning resignation. “Oh, all right. I suppose I’m not free after all. Tell Lorenzo so, won’t you?”

“Gladly,” he says, and she pins him with a stern look.

“ _Nicely_ , Grant,” she orders.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, and reluctantly erases the message he had already started typing, replacing it with a simple  _No, I have a date._

He drops Jemma’s phone back into her pocket, taking the opportunity to get a minor grope in, and is rewarded by a quick kiss before she elbows him out of her space. He retreats to the other side of the table, satisfied.

Then, because he can’t  _not_ , he sends Lorenzo a (polite!),  _I would really appreciate it if you would stop texting my girlfriend_  from his own phone as soon as Jemma is reabsorbed in the autopsy. He’s proud of himself for a) keeping it nice, as ordered, and b) calling her his girlfriend instead of his wife. If Lorenzo takes the text to Jemma, she’ll be very pleased by it.

She will not, however, be pleased by Lorenzo’s response.

 _I would really appreciate it if you would stop cock blocking me_.

Grant stares at it, considering. The message pisses him off, of course, but not as much as it would if it didn’t offer an incredibly appealing opportunity.

He knows Jemma hates the term “cock blocking,” and he’s willing to bet she’ll be twice as furious to have it applied to her. He likely won’t be able to convince her to let him kill Lorenzo (and it’s probably better not to ask; she’s kind of under the impression that the new leaf he’s turned over includes turning his back on his previous murderous ways, and it’s best to let her have her delusions), but…

Surely he can at least leverage this into permission to kick his ass?


	28. Someone yelled 'dibs'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "5. [text] “I just walked into a room at this party and somebody yelled ‘dibs!’…” Biospecialist"

It would be an understatement to say that Grant is bemused, upon entering yet another room at the house party he’s searching, to be greeted by a quickly shouted “Dibs!” and a chorus of groans.

“Uh, hi?” he asks, doing a quick scan of the room. It’s full to bursting with college-aged girls, but his target is not among them.

Damn it.

“Hello,” a short and extremely British-sounding girl says cheerfully, appearing out of the crowd to stand in front of him. “What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for Skye,” he says. “Have you seen her?”

There’s no  _logical_ reason that this random girl should know Skye, who isn’t even a student at this university, but he’s learned that she has a way of making friends with every person at a party in the first ten seconds after arriving, so there’s actually a pretty good chance.

But for some reason, the question seems to upset the girl, and she gives him a severe frown. “You’re not here for Skye. You’re here for me.”

She’s…kind of adorable, and it’s surprisingly difficult to hold back a smile.

“Am I?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “I called dibs, so you’re mine now. Not Skye’s.”

He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, trying not to laugh. Then he gives her his best smile.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” he says. “So if you haven’t seen Skye…”

“It does  _too_  work that way,” she insists. “In accordance with the rules of the dibs, you belong to  _me_. Why are you looking for Skye?”

‘The rules of the dibs.’ Christ, she’s really adorable. If she weren’t so clearly drunk out of her mind, he would be seriously tempted to follow up on this whole ‘belonging’ thing.

(She also looks young enough to be underage, so there’s that, but the inebriation is the major issue.)

Also there’s his job to consider.

“I’m looking for Skye because I work for her father,” he explains, which is—mostly true. It’s an over-simplification, but there’s no reason to get into the details. “She’s not supposed to be at this party, and I need to get her home before her dad realizes she’s gone.”

That’s actually more for her sake than his; it was the day shift who lost her, and even if it hadn’t been, Coulson’s mostly resigned himself to Skye’s habit of ditching her bodyguards. There’s a reason she’s never been able to keep one for longer than eight months—and why Grant, who graduated past babysitting detail when he was Skye’s age, was called in to take on the job.

(Grant knew from the moment they met that she would be trouble.

“That’s interesting,” she said, and he—young and naïve and completely unsuspecting as he was—asked, “What’s interesting?”

“Well, I’m the mafia kingpin’s gorgeous but rebellious teenage daughter,” she explained. “And you’re the terrifying but sexy enforcer assigned to protect me. This is either gonna turn into a porno or a slasher flick. I wonder which?”

In hindsight, he really should have requested a different assignment then and there.)

The point is, Coulson’s given up on punishing her ineffective bodyguards with anything worse than a minor beating when she slips the net, but Skye still gets a serious grounding. And as the person it will fall to to enforce said grounding, he’d really rather spare himself that headache.

She can’t outsmart him, but she could very easily whine him into an early grave.

“Oooh,” the girl says. She worries at her lower lip, visibly torn. “I suppose if it’s your job—but the dibs—?”

…Fuck it. He wants her.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Jemma,” she replies promptly.

“Well, Jemma,” he says. “I’ll make you a deal. If you point me towards Skye, I’ll give you my number, okay? And in the morning, when you’re sober, if you still want to hold me to the dibs, you can text me. How’s that?”

She looks thoughtful for a second, then brightens, expression some drunken version of cunning.

“On one condition,” she says. “You have to take your shirt off.”

He can’t help it. He laughs. “I what?”

“If I’m making an exception to the rules, I think I deserve a peek at my investment, don’t you?” she asks reasonably. “So you should take your shirt off.”

She’s hysterical. If she doesn’t text him in the morning, he might just have to hunt her down.

“Fair enough,” he says, and strips his shirt off.

Jemma’s eyes go wide, and while it’s exactly the reaction he was expecting—he’s been using his looks as a weapon since he was sixteen; he’s totally aware of how attractive he is—it’s still gratifying.

“Your muscles are very lovely and well-defined,” she informs him, reaching out to stroke her fingers along his abs almost wistfully. “May I lick them?”

Oh, yeah. He’s  _definitely_  keeping her.

Actually, he might just bring her along when he leaves with Skye; she’s clearly drunk out of her mind, and it doesn’t look like she’s got any sober friends around (since he has to assume that, if she did, they would stop her from hitting on a man nearly–if not more than–ten years older than her) to make sure she gets home okay. He could take on the job, let her sleep off the alcohol in one of the guest rooms.

That might technically be classed as kidnapping, from a certain perspective, but he’s got worse crimes to his name. And he’ll let her go if she wants to leave.

Probably.

“Not tonight,” he says, apologetically, and pulls his shirt back on. “Now, Skye?”

“Yes, right,” she says, and gestures over her shoulder. “I believe she’s in the cellar. Would you like me to show you the way?”

He smiles, slow and deliberate, and enjoys the way it makes her breath catch.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. I would.”

She beams at him in return and grabs his hand; amused, he lets her lace their fingers without protest. It’s been at least a decade since he last held hands with a woman—even longer since a woman initiated the action—and he finds himself charmed by it.

He hopes sober Jemma isn’t too different from drunk Jemma; he’s really starting to become fond of her.

“This way,” she says, and tugs him toward the door. “By the way, you never told me your name.”

“Didn’t I?” he asks, following her out of the room, into the (marginally) quieter hallway.

“No, you did not,” she confirms. “Which is just rude of you, really. How am I supposed to know what name to scream if you don’t introduce yourself?”

He is going to have  _so much fun_  with her.


	29. 7 Minutes in Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Can I request Biospecialist + 7 minutes in heaven?"

Pressed between a stone wall and the solid warmth of Grant Ward, Jemma has the absurd urge to giggle. She tries to hold it back, but it’s been a long day—full of such action-film dramatics as car chases, gunfights, and a fall from the roof of a seven-story building—and her nerves are rather shot.

So giggle she does.

“What’s so funny?” Ward’s voice is a low whisper in her ear, and the resulting heat low in her abdomen is distinctly  _not_  amusing. She swallows the rest of her giggles. “Simmons?”

“I’m caught between a rock and a hard place,” she says, biting her lip.

She can feel Ward’s smirk against her temple. “That  _is_  funny.” One of his hands leaves the wall beside her head to slide into her hair. “It’s also the kind of joke I’d expect from Skye. How bad did you hit your head?”

“Badly,” she admits easily, closing her eyes. She’s always enjoyed having her hair played with, and while that’s hardly what Ward is doing, it’s apparently close enough for her libido. “Just out of curiosity, does making a joke more suited to Skye make me more or less attractive to you?”

She feels more than hears his resulting chuckle, and the leg he has slotted between hers (a very happy accident, owing to their current cramped quarters) presses a little closer. She takes a deep breath, attempting to steady herself, but all it does is press her breasts more firmly against his chest.

Enjoyable, but unhelpful.

“Less, if I’m honest,” he says. “I’m kind of over the whole Skye thing, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Really?” she asks. “Because your recent actions speak otherwise.”

“Cal was a dick,” he defends. “That was general principle.”

She hums, unconvinced but not truly caring enough to argue. She feels warm all over, little sparks dancing along her skin at every point of contact with Ward—and there are many, many points of contact. And she doesn’t know whether it’s his cologne or aftershave or what, but he smells  _delicious_. She wants to lick him.

She wants to do more than just that.

“It’s not Skye I’m in this closet with, is it?” he adds, hand slipping out of her hair and down her neck.

“To be fair,” she says, a touch breathlessly. “It’s not Skye you had to rescue from gun-runners.”

“True,” he allows. “But I wouldn’t  _want_  to be here with Skye.”

“And you want to be here with me?” she asks. His thumb is resting over her pulse, so he must know how fast her heart is racing; she’d consider it unfair, if not for the very clear evidence she has of his reaction to  _her_. “Hiding in a closet from men who want to kill us?”

“There are places I’d rather be,” he says. “My bunk. Your bunk. My hotel room.” He cups her jaw, uses his hold to tilt her face up towards him, and she opens her eyes. His eyes are darker than she’s ever seen them. “But this’ll do.”

Then he’s kissing her, and she forgets all about the gun-runners, their lost comms, and the fact that, considering the point at which their communication with the team cut off, there’s a good chance the others are under the impression that Ward has gone bad again and kidnapped her.

He’s an excellent kisser.


	30. I'm not crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: ""I'm not crazy." + Biospecialist"

Of all the ways Grant would have chosen to see his wife again, this—separated by an impenetrable barrier, wrist still full of stitches from his most recent suicide attempt—was definitely not on the list.

“So,” Jemma says, settling herself into the room’s only chair. “Your friend Skye tells me that you’re insane.”

Her accent is particularly crisp, the way it only gets when she’s seriously angry, but there’s a tremor in her hands that tells him she’s trying not to cry. She’s feeling conflicted, then; not ideal, but he can work with it.

“I’m not crazy,” he promises. Not for the first time, he wishes his cell had furniture other than a bed; sitting on it would put him too far back, make him look distant, but standing is too easily read as a threat.

“No,” she agrees, giving him a slow once-over. Her hands fist in her lap. “I don’t believe you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Which then raises the question of why, precisely, you’ve been attempting to take your own life.”

Admitting it was all a ploy will end the effectiveness of said ploy, but he can’t leave Jemma thinking he’s suicidal. She’s more important than working the team; there are a dozen ways out of this cell, but only a few ways to maintain his marriage.

“I haven’t,” he says.

She gives a pointed glance to his wrist, and he shrugs.

“Strategic,” he says—half explanation, half apology. “Coulson and his team suspect everything I do and say on general principle. They’re more likely to pity than distrust the broken traitor.”

Coulson, who’s standing behind Jemma with his arms crossed, mutters something that sounds suspiciously close to  _I knew it_. Jemma ignores him.

“Slitting your own wrists,” she murmurs. “As a strategic decision. Perhaps you really are the sort of man they say you are.” She frowns down at her hands. “They’ve told me everything, you know. What do you have to say to that?”

“That  _they_  shouldn’t have brought you here,” he says, glaring over her head at Coulson. In return, he receives a pleasant smile.

“You would have preferred I be left to wonder about you for the rest of my life?” Jemma asks, unimpressed. “To imagine any number of fates you might have—”

She breaks off, pressing her lips together. It looks like the tears are winning out over her anger.

If she actually cries, the first thing he does when he gets out of this cell is going to be very, very violent.

“Not the rest of your  _life_ ,” he offers. “Just until I got out.”

“Considering the fact that you’re never getting out,” Coulson interjects. “Yeah. It would’ve been the rest of her life.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, dismissive, and then returns his attention to Jemma. “Jem—”

“Don’t  _Jem_  me,  _Grant_ ,” she snaps, and he has to wince at the way she bites out his name.

“I can explain that,” he says. He lets a bit of desperation leak into his voice, watches her spine stiffen and Coulson’s smug smile grow. “If you just—”

“Explain?” she demands. “How can you  _possibly_ —all these years we’ve been together, and I don’t even know your  _name_! What explanation could you possibly have for that?”

Her voice breaks a little at the end, and Coulson rests a comforting hand on her shoulder. Grant’s fingers itch with the urge to knock it away, but he forces it down. There’ll be time for that—for making clear how he feels about people touching his wife—later. Right now, Jemma is his priority.

“I wanted to keep you away from this,” he says. “From SHIELD. If they’d known about our connection, they’d have tried to recruit you.” He gives her a little half-smile, inviting her in on the joke. “And then I’d have had to kill them all.”

He can see the start of a reflexive smile on her face before she wipes it away, replacing it with a scowl.

“And HYDRA?” she asks. “Would you have allowed  _them_  to recruit me?”

“No,” he lies.

Coulson scoffs.

“Jemma,” Grant says. “I’m not denying that I’ve told you a lot of lies over the years. Starting, yes, with my name.” He softens his voice, adopts his best earnest expression. “But I’ve been honest, too. Whatever else I am, I am your husband and I love you. You have to believe that.”

Jemma swallows and looks away.

“Whatever else you are,” she echoes, quietly. She addresses her words more to the ceiling than to him. “You’re a murderer. You’re a liar. You’re  _HYDRA_.” She meets his eyes once more; hers are brimming with tears. “Do you deny it?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Then I think we’re done here,” she says, standing abruptly. She takes two steps forward, until she’s right at the edge of the line denoting the transparent barrier’s location, and pulls her wedding ring off of her finger. “You’re not my husband any more than I’m your wife.”

She drops her ring to the ground in front of the barrier; his eyes follow its path automatically, but he’s careful to keep his face blank. It seems to taunt him—so close, but so very far out of reach.

“Jemma—”

“Director Coulson,” she says over him, turning pointedly away. “I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind. I have work in the morning.”

“Of course,” Coulson says, sympathetic. He motions to the stairs. “After you.”

Jemma only looks back once, when she reaches the top of the stairs, and it’s only for a moment. She looks furious—betrayed—even distraught, and the proud smile he gives her in return is completely genuine. She’s come a long way since the girl she was when they first met, who couldn’t tell a lie to save her life.

Coulson trusts her—has bought into her woman scorned act entirely. It’s obvious he doesn’t think anything of her dramatic gesture, of her dropping her wedding ring outside of Grant’s cell—in lieu of throwing it in his face, which the barrier would prevent—and leaving it.

Of course, Coulson has no reason to know that Jemma’s wedding ring has a highly sophisticated tracker embedded in it. Just like he has no reason to know that Jemma’s employer, Tempest Industries, is actually a HYDRA front.

If he did, he might have had second thoughts about letting Jemma into the base.

“I told you you shouldn’t have brought her here,” Grant says to the closed door. Then he returns to his bed and settles in to wait. It’ll probably be a few hours before HYDRA arrives, and once they do, he has a lot of debriefing ahead of him.

He might as well get a nap in, first.


	31. I should have killed you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Can you do "I should have killed you?" Thanks!"

Jemma has seen Grant in any number of states, and he’s been attractive in all of them. Whether exhausted, severely injured, helplessly aroused, or overwhelmed with emotion, he is always, always devastatingly gorgeous to her.

Still, she doesn’t think any expression he’s ever sported has been half as appealing as the betrayal on his face right now.

“No hard feelings, darling,” she assures him, tapping the barrel of her gun against his cheek. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and she smiles. “Although I must say, you really should have seen this coming.”

“I should have killed you,” he grits out.

“Well, it certainly would’ve prevented this,” she allows, still smiling. “But I think we both know you couldn’t possibly live with yourself if you killed me. No matter what I’ve done.”

His eyes flicker to the corpse in the corner—Sunil’s doing; he’s always so dramatic—and he scowls.

“Don’t be so sure,” he says.

There’s blood trickling into his eye from the cut on his forehead, which must be irritating him; she wipes it away with her thumb, and he twitches like he’s thinking about snapping her wrist.

Not that he could, as securely shackled as he is, but as they say, it’s the thought that counts.

“You could spare yourself a lot of pain here, darling,” she tells him. “Your talents would make you a very valuable member of our team.”

“I won’t betray SHIELD,” he says. “Ever.”

He’s not angrily insistent; he’s calm, assured. She sighs.

“Come now, Grant,” she says. “We both know you’ve hardly any more morals than I do. Coulson’s little crusade to protect the planet is meaningless.”

“I don’t care about principle,” he admits easily. “But I’m no traitor. I won’t die for a cause. I  _will_  die for my team.”

“That’s very touching,” she laughs, tucking her gun away. “Happily, however, you won’t be dying at all.”

“And why’s that?” he asks. “You can torture me if you want, but it’s pointless. I don’t have any intel that you don’t.”

It’s true. Not that additional intel would mean much, anyway; she’s given Whitehall the Playground, with which came almost all of Coulson’s SHIELD. Intel is irrelevant when the enemy has already been destroyed.

“We’re not going to torture you, darling,” she says, brushing her fingers fondly along his jaw. It tenses under her touch, and she lets her hand drop. “No, our plans for you are much bigger—and, to be frank, much more painful. I’ll give you one last chance to join us and spare yourself that.”

She knows it’s useless, but she has to offer. She does love him, and she won’t enjoy seeing him suffer.

“I will  _never_  serve HYDRA,” he stresses, and she sighs.

“Never say never, darling,” she says. She takes one last look at him—she expects it will be weeks, at least, before she’s allowed to see him again—and then turns away. “Trust me. Soon enough, you’ll be happy to comply.”


	32. You were gone for five hours!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: ""You were gone for five hours!" Biospecialist"

By the second hour of Ward’s  _very quick, not something you need to concern yourself with_  errand, Jemma’s boredom wins out over her desire to be contrary. Which is why when the door finally opens, she’s lying on her stomach on the bed, reading the book he left for her.

She expects him to make some sort of comment about it—he’s full of comments, most of them mocking, although there is the occasional distressingly complimentary remark—and when he doesn’t, she looks up from her book (mostly to make certain that it’s actually him, and not some other manner of criminal breaking in for nefarious reasons).

The good—or, well, perhaps just not-bad—news is that it  _is_  Ward. The bad news is that he’s dripping blood all over the carpet.

“What on  _earth_ ,” she says, flatly. “Did you get stabbed again?”

Ward tips his head. “Sliced, actually. Thanks for asking.”

He’s got one hand pressing what looks like a towel to his upper chest, and he grimaces a little as he crouches in front of his open suitcase to dig through it with his other hand. After a minute, he straightens again, first-aid kit in hand. He drops it on the table and peels the towel away from his shoulder, hissing through his teeth, then quickly strips off his shirt.

Jemma is  _not_  a physician, but she’s spent a good portion of the last year and half acting as one, and she finds herself cataloguing his injuries automatically. He’s been more than just  _sliced_ ; in addition to a nasty cut along his collarbone, there’s the beginning of some worrying bruising on his torso and what looks like a bullet graze just above the waistband of his jeans.

“You were gone for  _five hours_ ,” she says, disbelieving.

“Missed me, huh?” he asks, giving her a flirty little grin. “I’ll try not to leave you so long again.”

She rolls her eyes and sits up, setting the book aside, as he takes a seat at the minuscule kitchen table and opens the first-aid kit. She only lasts through him retrieving the suture kit and cleaning the blood away from the wound on his collarbone before she breaks.

“Oh, stop it,” she orders, standing. “Let me do that.”

Ward’s eyebrows rise as she joins him at the table, pulling the other chair around so it’s next to his.

“You think I’m stupid enough to give you a needle?” he asks, but he’s already turning his chair to face hers.

“I think you know that  _I’m_  smart enough to realize there’s no way I’ll get home without you,” she corrects, opening the suture kit. “I don’t suppose you’ll accept a local anesthetic?”

“Nope,” he agrees.

“Suit yourself,” she sighs, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Though if you don’t keep still I’ll give you one regardless.”

He studies her curiously. “Noted.”

She can still feel his eyes burning into her as she begins to stitch his wound, but she keeps her attention determinedly on her work.

Providing medical treatment for one’s captor is probably not the done thing for prisoners, but even putting habit aside, Jemma is a firm believer in the idea that one good turn deserves another. Ward kidnapped her, yes, but he hasn’t been nearly as horrible as he could have. Her captivity has not been pleasant, but she’s well aware that it could be much, much worse. He’s been smug and mocking and, absurdly, sometimes flirtatious, but he’s made no move to harm her. He’s barely even threatened her.

He’s promised to return her home in the same condition he found her as long as she cooperates and, despite herself, she believes him.

And from a practical standpoint, she really  _isn’t_  likely to get home without his aid. She has no money, no identification, doesn’t speak the local language, and from the look she got at it when they arrived yesterday, this doesn’t seem to be the sort of neighborhood in which  _kindness to strangers_  is a regular practice.

Ward has been kind to her—as far as he goes, at least—and she needs him. The least she can do is keep him from shoddily treating his own wounds and developing any number of complications.

She’s not inclined to explain her reasoning to him, however, and she’s beginning to flush under the weight of his gaze. She casts around for something to say, to divert him with, and can only muster up a weak:

“Your errand took longer than I expected.”

“Longer than I expected, too,” he says. He’s holding himself carefully still, not flinching at all as the needle pulls through his skin. “I ran into some trouble.”

“So I see.” She tsks a little as she ties off the last stitch. “Only you could get into so much trouble in _five hours_.”

“What can I say?” he grins. “It’s a talent.”

“That’s one word for it,” she mutters.

They return to silence as she smooths a bandage over his stitches. His gaze on her is still assessing—thoughtful—but she finds herself entirely devoid of conversational topics. Their constant proximity over the last week has done a lot to alleviate her fear of him, but they’re a long way from the easy comfort they shared on the Bus.

Once she’s finished with the cut on his collarbone, she sits back.

“Does that need stitches?” she asks, indicating the graze along his side. Enough blood has dried around the wound that she can’t get a good look at it, and while she’s certainly capable of clearing said blood away…well, it  _is_  rather low on his hip.

Jemma is a professional and has treated him in more intimate places (she once had to stitch closed a wound on his upper thigh; he didn’t make eye contact with her for two weeks afterwards, and it strikes her now as almost funny that that must have been a deliberate character choice), but she shudders to imagine what he might say if she attempts to do so now without asking.

There’s a grin playing about his lips like he’s thinking about saying it anyway, but in the end, he merely shrugs his good shoulder.

“No idea,” he says. “I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Very well,” she says, and sets to cleaning the graze.

As it turns out, it only needs a few steri-strips; he waits patiently as she applies them, then stands.

“Thanks,” he says. He’s still  _looking_  at her, and it’s beginning to truly unsettle her; she busies herself removing her gloves in order to avoid his gaze.

“You’re welcome,” she manages.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when he suddenly cups her chin, tilting her face towards him and forcing her to make eye contact. His grip isn’t harsh at all, but she doesn’t quite dare knock his hand away; she sits perfectly still, heart racing, as he searches her face.

“Huh,” he says finally, and releases her. “You hungry?”

She accepts the change of topic gratefully; she doesn’t know what that was about, but she’s fairly certain she doesn’t want to. “A little.”

“All right,” he says. “I’ll go get us some dinner. Back in a few.”

“If you find more trouble,” she says, as he pulls on a clean shirt, “Do take care not to tear your stitches. We’ve only so much suture thread.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. His eyes flicker towards the bed, and the book she discarded when he came in. “How’s the book, by the way?”

“Dreadfully boring,” she admits.

Ward smiles. “I’ll see about finding you a better one.”

He’s out the door before she can reply, which is just as well. She has no idea what she would have said.

One thing is certain: she will be very, very relieved when he finalizes whatever deal he’s making with Coulson.

The sooner she gets away from him, the better.


	33. I'm not apologizing for the sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Biospecialist "I'm not apologizing for the sex""

“I’m sorry.”

Jemma’s fingers slip on the button she’s in the process of doing up, and she turns to face Ward, surprised. He’s still only half-dressed himself, wearing his jeans and nothing else, but considering his words, she finds her ability to enjoy the sight slightly diminished.

(Although not by much, truth be told. He really is an  _excellent_  specimen of a man, especially now that the last of his injuries from the fall of the Fridge have healed.)

“Well,” she says uncertainly. “That’s…not the reaction I was hoping for, I must admit.”

What just happened between them was, without doubt, the greatest sex of her life; that he finds it something to apologize for is fairly depressing.

Ward smiles, just a little. “I’m not apologizing for the sex.”

“Oh. Good,” she says. That’s a relief. “What are you apologizing for, then?”

“I’m apologizing for the fact that now we have to leave.”

She shakes her head, confused. It would be one thing if he said that  _he_  had to go—if he were running out on her, so to speak—but the  _we_  leaves her clueless. Why would he apologize for them leaving together? For that matter, why are they leaving at all? The others aren’t due back for another twenty-four hours, and certainly if Coulson had called Ward in for back-up he wouldn’t have paused to have sex with Jemma first.

“I don’t understand,” she admits.

“Then let me clear things up,” he says, moving closer.

Absurdly, she has to steel herself against backing away. It’s very odd; usually close proximity to Ward has an extremely pleasant effect on her, but right now, it’s making her strangely uneasy. She has no idea why.

“What—?”

She stops speaking when Ward’s hands close around her upper arms, but it’s his words that make her voice die in her throat.

“Hail HYDRA,” he says, and her heart stops.


	34. Is that blood behind your ear? (Skye/Lincoln)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Skyelincoln + Is that blood behind your ear?"

Lincoln’s first kiss with Skye…doesn’t go the way he expects it to.

It starts okay. There’s some flirting and some joking—both on her part; this thing between them’s been building for weeks, and at this point he’s so nervous about actually making a move he’s just grateful he can remember his name—and some completely unnecessary physical contact.

Things are going well, so he gathers his courage.

He leans in. She leans in.

He cups her face. She leans in closer.

He’s so close that they’re breathing the same air, that all of his senses are filled up with her, and he’s just thinking  _yes_  when she stops him with a finger to his lips.

“Sorry,” she says, leaning back. “Um.”

His heart sinks, disappointment warring with mortification, and he lets go of her and takes three very large steps back.

“I—I am so sorry,” he says, throat tight with embarrassment. “I thought—”

“No!” she interrupts. “No, that was  _totally_  going in a—in a kissing direction. Don’t be sorry. It’s just…um.”

She closes the distance between them, leaving barely enough space to breathe, and he holds himself completely still as she cups his face with both hands.

What is she doing?

“It’s just what?” he asks, carefully, as her fingers slide along the side of his face.

“It’s just…is that blood behind your ear?” she asks.

His hands go automatically to his ears, but Skye is already rubbing the skin behind them. It’s…a pretty weird sensation, to be honest.

“…No?” he asks. “Why would there be blood behind my ear?”

Skye lets go of his face and examines her hands like she’s expecting to find the secrets of the universe written on them.

“Huh,” she says. “Well that’s a relief.”

“Okay, I’m definitely missing something here.”

She looks up at him almost sheepishly, tucking her hands behind her back like putting them out of sight will make him forget the weirdness of the last few minutes.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just…” She shrugs a little, and he definitely doesn’t like the sudden element of defensiveness in her posture. “The last guy I kissed had just finished murdering somebody. And there was blood behind his ear. So.”

Wow. He…doesn’t even know where to start with that.

“I’m sorry,” is what he goes with, because there’s something bruised in her eyes and he kind of hates it. “That must’ve been really difficult for you.”

“Well, it wasn’t fun,” she agrees, and then bites her lip. “Did I ruin the mood? I ruined the mood, didn’t I?”

“A little,” he admits, because yeah. Even without the facing touching and the murder, this has him thinking about Jiaying (specifically, wondering if she knows about the whole kissing-a-murderer thing and the obviously traumatic effect it had on Skye), and he really doesn’t want to kiss a girl while thinking of her mother.

“Awesome,” she sighs. “Go me.”

She looks disappointed which—as messed up as it is—makes him feel a lot better. And thinking about what she said…

There’s obviously a lot of damage, there, about this murderer she kissed, and he has a feeling the blood is just the tip of the iceberg. He doesn’t like that at all.

He  _really_  doesn’t like that it’s so immediate, though. Not  _some guy I kissed_ , not  _this one time_. No. The _last_  guy she kissed.

Whatever this last guy did to put this look in her eyes, Lincoln can’t erase it. He can’t take it away, as much as he’d like to.

But he can make it less immediate. He can give her a good memory to help keep the bad one out.

So he does. And this time, when he leans in to kiss her, she doesn’t stop him.

It’s pretty much perfect.


	35. You make me so hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Biospecialist + 'You make me so hot'"

If he had been asked three hours ago, Grant would have said that he’s seen every single one of Jemma’s moods.

This, though. This is a new one.

“Explain it to me again,” Jemma orders sulkily, propping her cheek against her fist.

“Which part?” he asks, as patiently as he can.

She rolls her eyes. “The part where you won’t come in here and have sex with me already!” She flops onto her back and flings her arm over her eyes dramatically. “This is  _boring_ , Grant. I have no idea how you lasted so long in here. And sitting there, just out of reach, looking so delicious—that’s just  _cruel_.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat. It’s not like he doesn’t sympathize—the cell looks a lot bigger from this side of the barrier, but he hasn’t forgotten how quickly the walls started closing in on him during his imprisonment—and it’s not like he’s not tempted by her—because he is  _always_  tempted, and this is the first time in nearly a year that she’s looked at him with anything approaching desire—but…

“I can’t, sweetheart,” he says. “May would kill me.”

“So kill her first,” she snaps, sitting back up. “And then come back and fuck me.”

He only manages to bite back a laugh by virtue of reminding himself how many points it  _won’t_  win him once the drugs wear off. Once she’s back in her right mind, Jemma’s going to be beyond upset about this, and her having clear evidence of his amusement at her state won’t do him any favors.

“Maybe later,” he offers. “Right now I’d rather stay and keep you company.”

“Unless you’re going to do so nude and in this cell,” she says, “ _I_  would rather you go kill her.”

“Noted,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Ever since she was exposed to whatever the hell drug HYDRA released, Jemma has been swinging wildly between belligerence, misery, and a very blunt kind of lust. She’s completely unpredictable at the moment, hence her being locked in the Vault for her own safety—and that of the team.

What’s interesting about it is that her anger has never once been aimed at him. The lust is focused on him (thankfully; if she said even a fraction of the things she’s been saying to him to anyone else on this base, he’d kill them all, truce be damned) and the misery left her crying on his shoulder and demanding hugs (before she was locked in the Vault, obviously), but the anger? He got nothing.

Considering the fact that she’s spent the past year proclaiming to all and sundry just how much she hates him, it’s an interesting twist.

A twist that makes the fact he can’t act on any of her suggestions that much worse.

Grant’s a lot of things, but he’s not a rapist. Jemma in her right mind has made it clear that she wants nothing to do with him, and that means she’s off-limits, even when— _especially_  when—she’s impaired. Of course, this whole incident has given him reason to revisit the wanting nothing to do with him conversation, but it’ll have to wait ‘til she’s sobered up.

In the meantime, he’s sticking to this side of the barrier.

“Grant,” she whines. “Come  _on_. How many people have you killed in the last two weeks alone? I  _know_ that murder isn’t a problem for you.”

“No,” he admits easily, because it’s true. “But it’s a problem for you. In a few hours, you’ll regret saying that. And I think there are enough regrets between us already, don’t you?”

“Why do you do that?” she asks, despairing. “Why do you  _always_  do that? Ugh.” She flops back on the bed again. “You make me so  _hot_  when you act so concerned.”

Huh. Good to know.

“It’s not an act,” he says. “I  _am_  concerned. I love you; I don’t want you to hate me any more than you already do.”

“I don’t hate you.”

He laughs, despite himself. “Yes, you do.”

“Well, perhaps a little,” she admits, pushing herself up. She gives him a hopeful smile. “Do you know what would go a long way to fixing that?”

“Sex?” he guesses.

“Yes,” she says happily. “Exactly!”

“Ask me again in a few hours,” he says. “I’ll be glad to oblige.”

She makes a sad noise and, once again, flops back onto the bed. It’s kind of adorable.

He deserves  _so many_  points for his self-control. Seriously.

And they are  _definitely_  revisiting this conversation later.


	36. Does that require pants? (Skye/Jemma/Grant)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo asked: "Skye centric fic "Does that require pants?""

“I’ve got an idea.”

Skye cracks an eye open to look at Grant, who’s standing at the end of the bed. He’s wearing his jeans, for some reason, but he’s still shirtless, and she takes a second to appreciate the sight. Visually, at least. Her eyes are really enjoying it, but the rest of her body is apparently closed for business, because it totally fails to react.

She’s so sexed out that she can’t even get turned on by the sight of Grant Ward shirtless and covered in hickies. She doesn’t know whether that’s awesome or worrying.

“Does it require pants?” she asks, opening her other eye and shifting to look at him better. “Because I’m so not about that.”

“No pants required,” he promises, mock-solemn.

“Then I might be into it,” Skye allows. “Jemma?”

Jemma, who’s snuggled up to Skye, sighs and opens her eyes. “Will it require movement?”

“Yeah,” Grant says, with a little half smile. “It is gonna take some movement.”

“No pants but yes movement,” Skye muses. “Is your idea more sex?”

“Ugh,” Jemma says, and hides her face in Skye’s shoulder. “I do believe he’s trying to kill us.”

“Huh.” Skye eyes Grant, considering. “You know, that’s exactly the kind of sneaky, diabolical plan a SHIELD specialist would come up with, isn’t it? Death by sex.”

Grant is wearing that long-suffering face he always puts on when he’s trying to hide the fact that the team makes him feel all mushy inside. He totally loves them all.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” he says. It sounds pretty practiced; she wonders how often he has to promise people he’s not trying to kill them. Probably a lot. “And the idea isn’t more sex.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Jemma sighs, then frowns. “Hm. I might be broken.”

“Don’t worry,” Skye says, squeezing Jemma’s waist. They’re all tangled up; it’s nice. “I’m right there with ya.”

Honestly, she has no idea how Grant’s even  _conscious_  right now, let alone standing. They’ve had so much sex today; it’s a little ridiculous. Literally, all the sex has been had. It was totally incredible and probably illegal in like twelve states and Skye doesn’t regret a single second of it, but man, is she exhausted.

Grant’s looking kind of quietly smug, which is fair—seriously, how is he standing? All Skye wants is a nap—but she makes a practice never to leave him like that. Can’t have him getting a big head, right?

(And the fact that she’s not even tempted to turn that into a double entendre, even mentally, is proof of just how exhausted she is.)

“Okay, so if it’s not sex, what is your idea?” she asks. “Fair warning, if it’s for me to do my evening work-out I might actually shove you out a window.”

He rolls his eyes. “I think we’ve both gotten just about as much of a work-out as we can take today.”

Skye exchanges a smug look and then a quick high five with Jemma at him including himself in that. Score. They’re total sex goddesses.

“The  _idea_ ,” he says, looking kind of exasperated (she’s really familiar with this expression, too), “Is that we check out the jacuzzi.”

“Oh,” Jemma says. “That does sound nice.”

It really does.

This is a super nice hotel—nice enough that Skye feels kind of bad that two of the six rooms AC’s paying for are going unused—and the jacuzzi is  _amazing_. It’s like the size of a small swimming pool, and Skye absolutely wants to try it out before the weekend is up.

Which Grant knows because she mentioned it earlier. Pointedly. Right after she talked about how she wants to order room service at some point. Which somehow came up after—

Wait.

Skye looks from Grant to Jemma to the empty room service cart by the door and back to Grant.

“Wait, do you have—are you keeping a list?” she asks. “Of all the things we wanna do?”

“Of course not,” Grant scoffs, but he’s looking a little red around the ears.

He’s  _blushing_. Skye cannot even handle this right now.

“He totally has a list,” she tells Jemma.

“Oh, yes,” Jemma says. “Undoubtedly.”

“That is  _so cute_ ,” Skye says. “Isn’t that cute, Jemma?”

“He’s adorable,” she agrees, snuggling back into Skye’s side.

Grant makes a face like he can’t believe she just said that—which, fair. It’s kind of weird to have Jemma call  _anyone_  adorable, since she’s literally the most adorable person on the planet. She’s all tiny and energetic and her eyes get all big when she’s excited—like a bunny! She’s totally a bunny. A little science bunny.

Except that’s not totally true, because—as today has proved really well—she can also be seriously sexy. She’s like a…sexy bunny, and you really don’t see too many of those. Except—

“Oh my god,” Skye realizes. “You’re Lola Bunny!”

Jemma gives her a weirded-out look, but Grant’s face twitches a little like he’s trying not to laugh, so Skye’s pretty sure he knows  _exactly_  what she’s talking about and totally agrees.

And wow, Grant’s seen  _Space Jam_. She knew he had a soul.

“I’m on to you,” she tells him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” he says. “Enough. Do you want to use the jacuzzi or not?”

“Well, obviously,” she says, and looks at Jemma.

She scrunches her nose, which is just cute (and also more proof of her bunny-like qualities). “I’m not against it, but I  _really_  don’t want to move. Perhaps later?”

“Well, that’s an easy fix,” Grant says, and rounds the corner of the bed to sweep her into his arms.

Jemma actually squeaks, which is literally the most adorable sound that has ever been made by a human being, and clutches Grant’s shoulders. He’s looking smug again; one of the things they’ve learned about him this weekend—which they really should have guessed, honestly—is that he’s kind of got a thing for using his strength and/or training against them.

(She totally should have seen that coming, with the way he’s always harping on about her strength training, but how was she supposed to know it was a sex thing and not a boring SHIELD thing? Or not _just_  a boring SHIELD thing.)

“Grant,” Jemma says, hitting his shoulder. “Put me down!”

“In a minute,” he says, and raises his eyebrows at Skye. “You coming?”

She grins and bounces to her feet—and gets a moment of smugness of her own at the way Grant and Jemma’s eyes follow her.

“Just try and stop me.”


	37. Then go kill the bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "“Then go kill the bitch.” Biospec, please and thank you!"

Grant hasn’t been able to pull his attention away from Jemma—from her pale, tear-stained face, from the accusation in her eyes, from the bruises blooming on her arms—since she was brought in. So it’s not all that surprising that he almost misses the order.

“Kill her.”

“Sir?” he asks, tearing his eyes away from her to look at his nominal boss.

“I said, kill her,” Lorenzo repeats slowly.

Seriously? Jemma is one of the most brilliant scientists on the  _planet_ , and that’s without taking into account her very personal experience with the super-soldier serum. Under the right persuasion, she could be an incredible asset to HYDRA.

“Sir, are you sure that’s—”

“Ward,” Lorenzo interrupts sharply. “I do hope your relationship with this woman didn’t cloud your judgment.”

“Of course not,” he says, insulted. He’s a  _professional_. “It was just strategic—something to humanize me to the team.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jemma flinch, but he ignores it, focusing on Lorenzo. He really hates this guy. For one thing, he’s a moron, and for another, he’s completely incompetent.  _Fitz_  could kill this guy with one hand tied behind his back.

The fact that Grant is actually subordinate to Lorenzo is just unbelievable. It’s an insult, plain and simple.

“So you’re not emotionally compromised?” Lorenzo presses.

“No,” he says flatly, and nearly forgets to add the, “Sir.”

“Good. Then kill the bitch,” Lorenzo orders.

Grant sighs and turns back to Jemma. She’s even paler than she was when she was brought in, and she’s visibly trembling, but she lifts her chin and meets his eyes evenly. He draws his gun, and she swallows audibly, but she doesn’t blink.

“Today, Ward,” Lorenzo says. “We’re on a schedule, here.”

“Yes, Grant,” Jemma says hoarsely. “Get on with it.”

There’s an odd twinge in his chest at how wrecked she sounds, and he finds himself looking at the bruises on her arms, tracing over them with his eyes. She put up a hell of a fight when they caught her; he’s proud of her.

She’s crying again, silently, tears sliding down her face while she stares him down, straight-backed and proud. It pisses him off, but it also causes another twinge. He’s not used to her looking at him this way—with disgust and, worse, fear. It bothers him.

…His feelings for her are real, aren’t they? That’s inconvenient.

Oh, well.

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at his gun. “That’s not gonna happen.”

He shoots the two men holding Jemma and then turns sharply to shoot both of Lorenzo’s guards before they can react. He makes it quick and easy, a single shot to the center mass each. He’s got nothing against them.

Lorenzo, though…

Lorenzo is stumbling back away from him, eyes wide. “Ward! Ward, think about what you’re doing! HYDRA—”

“HYDRA doesn’t have my loyalty,” Grant says, feigning apology. “Sorry. Better luck next time.”

Lorenzo’s still got his mouth open, pleading, when Grant shoots him in the face. It’s extremely gratifying.

What’s  _not_  gratifying is turning to find Jemma backed up against a wall, frozen in fear. She looks more frightened now—when he’s just finished crossing off the people holding her prisoner—than she did before. So he makes sure to holster his gun before he approaches her, hands raised and placating.

She shrinks back against the wall, and he stops.

“You didn’t really think I was gonna kill you, did you?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she counters. She’s obviously trying for anger, but her voice wavers too much to make it believable. “You’re a murderer. A traitor.  _HYDRA_.”

“Murderer and traitor I’ll give you,” he admits, because…yeah. It’s true. “But as you can see, I’m not HYDRA anymore.”

Her eyes flicker to Lorenzo’s corpse, and she swallows, looking sick. “Why—why would you—”

“Switch sides?” he offers.

“Switch sides  _again_ ,” she clarifies, a little of her usual attitude in her voice. “Yes.”

He sighs and tucks his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. There are a few different ways he can approach this; the question is, which one gives him the best chance of winning her over again?

Whatever he chooses, it won’t be today. She’s scared out of her wits and just saw him kill six people in thirty seconds. This damage is going to take a while to reverse.

“I’ve told you about John,” he says eventually.

She nods silently.

“John was more than an SO,” he says. “He was like a father to me.” He’s told her this before, and he can see her wondering what it has to do with anything, so he skips over the middle part and gets straight to the point. “He was also HYDRA.”

“He recruited you?” she asks quietly.

“He did.” He scrubs a hand over his face, weighing his words. “SHIELD abandoned him, Jemma. They sent him into the field and left him to die, then acted like nothing ever happened when he made it out—when he dragged  _himself_  out.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly; struggling with his anger. It’s been three years since he lost John, and it still pisses him off. “And then they did it again. And that time, he didn’t make it out.”

“I’m sorry that you lost him,” she says, soft and genuine. “But that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s not—I’m not trying to excuse myself. Just explain.” He licks his lips. “The thing is, I was never loyal to HYDRA. I was loyal to John, and he worked for HYDRA, so I did, too. After he died, I—well, I still wasn’t loyal. But I wasn’t about to jump ship for the people that got John killed. So I stuck with HYDRA.”

Jemma is quiet, lips pressed into a thin line. He thinks of asking what she would do if SHIELD got Fitz killed, but he thinks that’s leverage for the next conversation. Right now, all he’d get would be a snarky answer about not being a murderer. She needs time to absorb this; she’ll draw the parallel on her own. She’s too empathetic a person not to imagine herself in his shoes.

“I was HYDRA by default,” he says instead. “That’s all. And it would take a hell of a lot more than that to make me hurt you.”

She laughs humorlessly, and he twitches with the urge to touch her. She’s still terrified, riding an adrenaline high, and she looks like she’s about ten minutes away from a breakdown. He wants to hold her and tell her that she’ll be okay, kiss away her fear the way he’s been doing for months.

But they’re a long way from that, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he tries to comfort her and she shoves him away. So he stays right where he is.

“I love you, Jemma,” he tells her. She flinches. “I know you don’t believe it right now. You’ve got every reason to doubt me. But it’s the truth.”

“You’re right,” she says, hugging herself. “I don’t believe you at all.”

Even though it’s exactly what he was expecting, it pisses him off. But he makes sure to keep it off his face.

“That’s fine,” he says. “I know it’ll take a lot more than words to make this right.” He risks taking a small step towards her; she watches him warily, but she’s not trying to meld into the wall anymore, so he’ll call it a victory. “In the meantime, will you let me get you out of here?”

The team won’t be any more eager to forgive him than she is, and there’s a decent chance that May will shoot him on sight. But it’s a risk he’ll have to take; he can’t just leave Jemma to try and find her way back on her own.

She swallows, looking from him to the bodies on the floor and back again. He extends a hand and waits.

It takes nearly a full two minutes, but eventually she takes his hand, and it’s an effort to keep the smile off of his face.

It was careless to lose her—to not realize exactly what she meant to him before he fractured their relationship by revealing his true allegiance. But now that he knows how he feels, he’s not letting go. It’s just a matter of time; he’ll win her back over.

Even if he has to kill all of HYDRA to do it.


	38. Please don't leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Biospecalist & "Please don't leave""

The screen blinks off.

She breathes. Her throat is raw. Her mouth is dry.

She’s been screaming.

There is pain. Everywhere. Awareness is slow to return, but as it does, she  _feels_.

Along her ribs (still broken). Along her face (still throbbing). In her jaw (that’s new). In her eyes (that isn’t).

She catalogues it, bit by bit. This pain, that pain. She knows pain. Pain is real.

It’s the only thing that is.

She doesn’t know why the screen is off. It always turns off just before Whitehall visits, but it hasn’t been too long since his last one. Has it? Time is so hard to keep track of; her world is an endless stretch of pain.

But she recognizes the tie the man standing beside the screen is wearing. That seems significant.

Her eyes are fixed—stuck—on the screen, and her field of vision is therefore greatly limited. So she doesn’t see the wall open, only hears it. She hears footsteps—two sets—and then Whitehall is in front of her.

“Are you ready to comply?” he asks. His tone is clinical, disinterested. He doesn’t care one way or the other.

At the start, she always answered this question snarkily. She can remember that, can remember the spite that filled her—can remember calling on her memories of—of people, two women. Their names are lost to her now (and their faces nearly so), but she remembers calling on their strength to deliver exactly the sort of biting comment she felt Whitehall deserved.

She remembers that. She remembers feeling that it was important.

She doesn’t remember why.

“No,” she croaks.

She doesn’t know why she does that, either. Her world is endless pain; certainly the sensible thing to do is say  _yes_. The pain will end as soon as she does, she knows it will.

But something inside of her, something small and terrified but strongly insistent, says  _no_.

And thus, so does she.

“As you can see,” Whitehall says, directing the words to someone behind her, “She’s a work in progress.”

“Apparently.”

She jerks in her bonds, startled, and Whitehall smiles.

“Yes,” he says, and motions behind her. “An old friend has come to visit you.”

A man steps into view, and something cold runs under her skin.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says. “Long time.”

She doesn’t remember his name. She doesn’t remember how she knows him. But she remembers how he made her feel. She remembers being angry—so, so angry—at him. She remembers being heartbroken. She remembers being terrified.

But all of that is gone. All she feels now, looking at him, is a distant sort of hope.

He’s a murderer, this man is, and that’s…(bad?)…a fact. But she remembers this: he was, in his own way, merciful. The death he delivered (to whom?) was swift, unhesitating. He never did this, never killed anyone by degrees, never dragged it out into weeks and months.

She hopes he’s here to kill her.

“Nothing to say?” A hand cups her jaw, and he stares down at her, eyes dark. She thinks she used to be able to read him. Probably. “That’s not like you.”

Isn’t it? How odd.

But her throat is in agony. Even if she were inclined to speak—is she even allowed?—she wouldn’t.

“How did you catch her?” the man asks, without looking away from her. His fingers slide along her jaw and up her cheek, brushing lightly over the area of throbbing pain which must be a bruise. “I got the impression that Coulson’s crew was pretty far in hiding.”

Coulson. Something about the name makes her throat tight.

“They are,” Whitehall says. “We didn’t find her; she found us.” He chuckles. “She was a mole.”

The man finally looks away from her to stare at Whitehall. “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“ _Jemma_  was undercover?” the man asks. “She’s the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

Jemma. Is that her name? It’s never occurred to her that she might have one, but of course she must.

Jemma. Jemma. Jemma.

It doesn’t feel like hers, but she tries to fix it in her mind anyway. Her name is Jemma and she is a bad liar.

“Apparently, she’s improved since your time together,” Whitehall says dryly. “She made it quite a ways into our ranks before she was revealed.”

“Huh.” The man looks back to her—to  _Jemma_ —and quirks his lips in something like a smile. “Well done, Jem. I’m impressed.”

“She wasn’t without assistance,” Whitehall says. The man looks at him. “From you, Mr. Ward.”

“Oh?” says the man—Ward. She tries to memorize it. Ward. Ward. Ward.

She’s Jemma and she’s a bad liar. He’s Ward.

“We were, of course, aware of your relationship with her,” Whitehall says. “She used that. Her claim was that you turned her before being killed.” He spreads his hands. “It was an effective lie.”

Ward laughs. The sound causes a warm feeling in her chest. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll bet it was,” Ward says. He’s touching her again, smoothing away the hair which has been stuck to her temples for…a very long time. His hands are cool. They feel strangely not-painful on her overheated skin. “That must’ve been your idea, huh, Jem? It’s too clever for Coulson.”

Something about his tone—

There’s a memory. A small wooden—room? Shed?—in a sunny place. Cold fear creeping down her spine, warring with a hot, desperate anger. He tried to kiss her. She slapped him, hard enough that her hand stung and his head turned.

She could see leashed rage in his eyes when he turned back. Cold fear won out.

She thought, then, that he was going to kill her. She can remember that, the terror of the moment, the way her breath caught in her lungs and her heart pounded in her chest.

She’s restrained. She can’t slap him. Can she make him that angry with her words alone?

She doesn’t have any words.

“So,” Whitehall says. “Do we have a deal, Mr. Ward?”

Ward studies Jemma’s face for a long moment, then smiles and turns away.

“We have a deal,” he confirms.

“Excellent,” Whitehall says. “Shall we?”

“After you,” Ward invites.

Despair unfolds in her chest as the two men leave without a second glance at her. Ward doesn’t intend to kill her, and she has no way to provoke him into it. She wants to call after him, wants to beg him— _please don’t leave_ ,  _please kill me_ —but she has no words.

She’s stuck. He will grant her no reprieve from her pain.

The wall closes. The screen blinks on.

Her name is Jemma. She is a bad liar.

Her name is Jemma. She is a bad liar.

Her name is Jemma.

\---

The screen blinks off.

She breathes. Pain filters in.

The wall opens. There’s an odd sound—a muffled  _thwump_ —and the man next to the screen crumples to the ground.

Another man steps into her view. He’s familiar. Has she seen him before? He’s tucking something into the waistband of his jeans as he approaches her.

“Hey, baby,” he says, and his voice—

She knows his voice.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says.

He’s very close. He cups her face and leans down to meet her eyes. His hands are cool.

“Are you ready to comply?” he asks.

She remembers answering this question many, many times. She remembers saying no.

But she doesn’t remember why. Surely compliance is better than unending pain.

“Yes,” she rasps. Her throat is on fire.

He grins, and something not-pain unfurls low in her belly. “Good girl.”

He presses his lips to hers. Mostly, it hurts—her lips are dry and cracked, the bottom one split (from a blow?)—but it also…doesn’t. It feels…it feels…

She doesn’t know. But whatever feeling it creates, she wants to keep it. It’s new, something not-pain. She tries to hold on to the feeling, fix it in her mind, but he backs away before she has the chance.

“Time to go,” he says, and draws something out of his jacket.

 _Mine_. The thought is automatic, unbidden, but she knows it as truth as soon as she has it. This thing he’s holding—which looks like a gun but isn’t, precisely—is hers. She made it. She and…someone else. Someone important.

She hopes she’ll be able to hold on to that.

“Now take a deep breath,” the man orders, and raises his ( _her_ ) not-gun. “You’ll feel better soon.”

She takes a deep breath. It hurts.

He pulls the trigger.


	39. How could anyone forget? (Jemma & Lance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: "Jem/Lance brOTP “How could anyone forget a thing like that?”"

The mission has reached the point where Jemma’s beginning to fear that she actually  _is_  going to have to accompany the mark to his room, which is why it’s such a relief when Hunter enters the bar.

His presence is the all-clear sign, thank goodness, which means she can gracefully excuse herself from this encounter rather than having sex with a literal mad scientist. (Or, more realistically, shooting him with an ICER and fleeing; Jemma is very aware of her limits, and sleeping with a man solely for the sake of information is rather beyond them.)

Of course, that does leave the problem of  _how_  to gracefully excuse herself. She has, after all, only just finished making some very…explicit promises.

“So,” the mark—one Lorenzo Santoro—says, with what is probably supposed to be a seductive smile. “You ready to get out of here, babe?”

“Oh, no,” she says, faking dismay. “No, I’ve only just realized—I can’t.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“Well, I—I’ve only just remembered,” she says, casting desperately about for an excuse. She’s a much better liar than she used to be, but that’s only when she has time to  _prepare_. She’s still awful at improvisation. Sudden inspiration comes in the form of Hunter, who’s approaching with an expression that suggests he intends to rescue her. “I’m married!”

“You’re…married,” Santoro says slowly. “And you…forgot?”

“Yes,” she says, relieved, as Hunter reaches them. “And this is my husband! Say hello, darling!”

Hunter’s brow furrows, but he recovers admirably. “Hello, darling.”

“He’s funny, isn’t he?” she asks Santoro, with a mostly convincing laugh. “I do love that about him.”

“How could anyone forget a thing like that?” Santoro, it seems, is still stuck on the logistics of it. “I mean, being  _married_ , come on.”

Which is certainly fair. How  _could_  someone forget something like that?

“We’re newlyweds,” Hunter deadpans.

“Yes,” Jemma agrees quickly. Inspiration strikes, and she continues, “And it’s possible that I’m in a little bit of denial. We’ve been having problems.”

Hunter’s eyes go wide like he knows exactly where she’s going and greatly disapproves. “Love—”

“He’s just not very  _good_ , you see,” she continues, unable to stop herself. “I thought perhaps being married would help, but it really hasn’t. Nor have any amount of toys or practice. Even detailed, step-by-step instructions were useless! Honestly, I haven’t been truly satisfied, sexually speaking, since before we began dating three and three-quarter years ago—”

“All right,” Hunter interrupts, loudly. At the other end of the bar, Trip (whose role in this mission was keeping an eye on Jemma, just in case Santoro became aggressive) is having a horrid coughing fit. He might actually be crying. “I think that’s enough of our private life shared, don’t you, love?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, wincing. She just  _knows_  this is going to join  _prostitutes-plural_  and  _gorgeous-head_  on her list of most-retold gaffs. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“That’s all right,” he says, although he gives her a sideways look that promises future retribution. “But, just out of curiosity, how did the topic of our marriage come up?”

“Well,” Santoro begins, with a very pleased smile, as though he’s looking quite forward to Hunter’s reaction. “Your wife was just promising me sex when she suddenly changed her mind, because she remembered you.”

Hunter gives her a look of such wounded shock that she actually feels guilty, despite the fact that they aren’t romantically involved at all, let alone married.

“You were going to  _cheat_  on me?” he demands. “How  _could_  you?”

“I wasn’t going to  _cheat_  on you,” she says weakly. “I simply…forgot you.”

“And you think that makes it better?” He gestures angrily. “We’ve been together for three years—”

“Three and three-quarters,” she corrects.

“Yeah, I  _don’t_  think we’ll be making it to four,” he snaps, and storms dramatically away.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Darling, wait!”

She chases him out of the bar and into the car park, where he’s waiting with the car and an unimpressed look.

“Really?” he asks. “Was that  _really_  necessary?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, wincing. “It was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Me being bad at sex?” he demands. “ _That_  was the first thing that came to mind?”

“Well, it’s—I’ve been speaking with Bobbi, you see—”

“Bobbi did  _not_  say that I’m bad at sex,” he snaps. Then he hesitates. “Did she?”

Actually, she was rather graphic about how  _good_  he was, and how it would be much easier to end things with him if he weren’t. Jemma was sworn to secrecy about that, however.

“It—no, of course not,” she says. “Now, are we going to leave? Or do you intend to spend all day in this car park?”

“What did she say?”

“Don’t you have information to get back to the Playground?” she asks. “Wasn’t that the whole point of this farce?”

“Simmons, tell me what she said.”

“We can’t still be here when Santoro leaves,” she says. “It would be incredibly suspicious—”

“ _Simmons._ ”


	40. biospecialist as parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "how about a biospecialist as parents fic in honor of mother's day?"

“Do you know what day it is, Jemma?”

Jemma sighs. “Do you think that I care?”

Perhaps it’s rude of her, but after more than a month spent locked in this cell, she simply doesn’t have the energy (or, honestly, the inclination) to play nice any longer. Her future is clearly laid out before her—an endless stretch of imprisonment with no hope of release—and the sheer bleakness of it makes it difficult to care about social niceties.

And certainly rescue is out of the question, as the one person she would have counted on to rescue her counts himself amongst those holding her captive. It’s a depressing but unfortunately unarguable truth: she’s stuck.

“I think you should,” he says, unruffled by her rudeness. “It’s May 11th.”

“And?” she asks. She can hear him shifting, but doesn’t bother to look at him. There’s nothing at all interesting about the wall, but it’s easier to look at than the door—than the freedom just out of reach. “What’s your point?”

She isn’t used to this sort of inactivity. Before this, the longest she had ever gone without setting foot in a lab was a week, and that was on her honeymoon, where she at least had sex to distract her.

Her captors, unsurprisingly, have not offered her conjugal visits with her husband. Not that she’d accept if they did, but really it’s the principle of the thing. If they’re going to keep her imprisoned with no work to do, they could at least offer her  _some_  manner of distraction.

It’s an interrogation technique, she thinks. They know how poorly she does when she hasn’t any way of occupying her mind; they must be hoping that the monotony will break her where relentless questioning did not.

Admittedly, it’s a decent strategy. It’s simply too bad—for all of them—that she doesn’t have the intel they want.

“May 11th,” he repeats. “Mother’s Day.”

Her heart clenches painfully and her throat goes tight; she has to focus on her breathing to keep it steady. This is a new and unprecedented level of cruelty.

Honestly, she’s surprised it took them this long to reach it.

“Personally, I was all in favor of letting it pass unnoticed,” he says, conversational. “But I was outvoted. So. You get fifteen minutes.”

Her heart leaps. Does he mean—?

She rolls at once to face him, and her heart sinks just as quickly as it leapt. He’s alone. There’s no sign of her daughter at all.

“Yeah.” He smiles pleasantly. “I thought that would get your attention.”

She sits up, steeling herself against the tears stinging at her eyes. Even worse than the monotony of her cell has been the separation from her daughter; she’s used to being apart from Sofia, considering her career, but she’s never gone so long without at least Skyping her.

“Was there a point to that?” she asks. “Or was it merely for your amusement?”

“There’s nothing funny about this,” he says severely. “And I wasn’t lying.” He gives a nod to the camera in the corner, then adds, “I just wanted you to be facing me for this.”

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and Jemma’s breath catches as Grant enters the basement with Sofia in his arms.

She’s so  _big_.

“Fifteen minutes,” Coulson reminds her, and then leaves, passing Grant at the bottom of the stairs.

Jemma barely notices him go; she can’t pull her eyes away from her daughter. She scrambles to her feet and approaches the barrier at once.

“Barrier stays up,” Grant tells her. They’re the first words he’s spoken to her since her initial interrogation, and were it not for the presence of their daughter, his tone—distant, unaffected, as if speaking to a prisoner he’s never met before, rather than his own wife—would hurt her.

As it is, nothing can touch her. Not with Sofia within her sight, smiling and happy and  _here_.

“That’s fine,” she says. She hates it—wants nothing more than to hold her daughter—but she doesn’t dare argue, for fear that he’ll take Sofia away. “Is she—is she alright?”

“Yeah,” Grant says, bouncing Sofia in his arms a bit. She’s reaching for Jemma, unaware of the barrier—far too young to understand that her mother is in prison for a long list of supposedly unforgiveable crimes. “She’s fine. She’s turning into a climber—scared the life out of Skye last week by getting up on the counter while she was making lunch.”

The tidbit makes her heart swell, but also twist, and she presses her lips together, trying not to cry. Sofia’s a very sensitive child and already plainly distressed by Grant’s refusal to hand her over; if Jemma starts crying, she’ll undoubtedly follow suit.

She doesn’t want to see her daughter cry. She  _never_  wants to see that, but especially not now—not when all she gets is fifteen minutes.

“Is she,” Jemma swallows, struggling with her composure. “Is she talking yet?”

“No,” Grant answers. Sofia is beginning to make the type of small, distressed noises that kill them both; he grimaces as he hugs her close, trying to calm her. “Not yet.”

“That’s all right,” Jemma says, and gives Sofia an admittedly tremulous smile. “You’re just saving your words up, aren’t you darling? Mummy didn’t talk until she was two years old; you’ve plenty of time yet. Nothing to worry about, no.”

Sofia sniffles, and Jemma’s heart breaks.

In all her years with HYDRA, she’s never once regretted the path she chose—not until this moment, at least, separated from her daughter by an impenetrable barrier. It’s beginning to sink in, slowly, exactly what her imprisonment means.

She’ll never hold Sofia again. Never introduce her to science—to biology, to chemistry, to botany—or any of her myriad other interests. She won’t be attending parent-teacher conferences, won’t get to watch Sofia discover and develop interests of her own. She won’t be a witness to Sofia’s growth or an influence on her mind and heart.

She won’t be a  _parent_ , merely an observer—and even that only by the grace of SHIELD.

Fifteen minutes on Mother’s Day. She wonders if it will become a tradition, or if this will be a one-off. Perhaps it’s the last time she’ll see Sofia for  _years_ —until Sofia is old enough to ask about her mother, to want answers about the hole in her life.

She pictures Sofia as a teenager, standing on the other side of the barrier giving her the disgusted, betrayed look she’s seen from Grant, from Fitz, from Skye, and she loses her battle against her tears.

Sofia wails.

“Oh, no. No, ducks, don’t cry,” Jemma begs. She reaches for her, reflexive, and bites back a curse as she’s repelled by the barrier. “It’s all right. Mummy’s just being silly, that’s all.” She swipes at her face, reaching desperately for calm. “There’s no need to cry, Sofia. Daddy’s got you, hasn’t he?”

Grant echoes her, bouncing Sofia in his arms and murmuring soothing words, and Jemma has to turn away for a moment. It’s just—

It’s too much.

She turns back as Sofia’s sobs subside into quiet sniffling and meets Grant’s eyes.

“You should take her back upstairs,” she says.

Grant looks back at her, expression unreadable. “It hasn’t been fifteen minutes yet.”

“I’m waiving the rest of my time,” she tells him, and looks back to Sofia. “It’s chilly down here, and she’s already upset. I don’t want her catching her death of cold on top of that.”

He’s quiet, and Jemma gives Sofia her best smile.

“I love you so very much, Sofia,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. “More than anything. More than  _everything._ I hope someone will make sure you know that, someday.”

Grant is frowning now. “Jemma—”

“I don’t want you bringing her down here again,” she interrupts. “A cell is no place for our daughter.” She keeps her tone light and happy, not wanting to upset Sofia again, but she believes the look she pins Grant with speaks volumes. “If you never believe anything else of me, Grant, believe this: when it comes to Sofia, I want exactly what you want.”

“For her to grow up happy and healthy and safe,” he says, quietly, repeating the promise they made each other nearly every day of her pregnancy. “Knowing that she’s loved.”

“Precisely,” she says, and swallows down the tears that threaten. “No child could be happy in a place like this. You’d do well to take her far away from SHIELD as a whole, but if you won’t do that, I must at least insist that you keep her out of this basement.”

He’s silent for a long moment before he nods once, sharply.

“Thank you,” she says, and turns back to Sofia. “Goodbye, darling. I love you.”

She can barely force the words out past the lump in her throat, and turning away is physically painful. Yet, somehow, she manages.

As she does so, her peripheral vision catches the barrier becoming opaque. Grant has blocked her off—has spared her the sight of him walking away with their daughter.

It’s a kindness. It’s also the last straw.

Jemma retreats to her bed and sobs herself into a restless sleep.


	41. providential timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pointed out to Mir that it was definitely her turn to write Jemma/Grant as parents, since she’s the only one of our unofficial trifecta who didn’t make a showing for Mother’s Day. Her response was, literally, “Hahaha. No.”
> 
> So I’m taking her turn for her.

Jemma doesn’t hear a single word of Grant’s account of the fall of the Fridge, and that’s entirely deliberate.

She can’t  _allow_  herself to listen to it. Her heart hasn’t yet recovered from the forty-three seconds between Agent Koenig informing them that the Fridge had fallen and Grant answering the phone; to actually hear how he received his numerous injuries would simply be more than she could take.

So she tunes him out as best she can, lets herself be soothed by the calm, even cadence of his voice, and focuses on patching him up. He has two cracked ribs, a zygomatic fracture, multiple bruises and abrasions, and two cuts that she believes will scar. She’s seen him with worse—nothing will ever match the sheer terror of the night he got shot by a sniper, when he insisted that  _she_  remove the bullet and flatly threatened to snap the wrist of the actual medic that attempted to treat him—but it’s still upsetting.

It’s not that she doesn’t understand that it’s his job, it’s just—he needs to be more careful. She needs him to be careful.

She manages to keep her composure for as long as it takes to finish treating him and to report on his status. Then she all but flees into the Bus’ storage area, leaving the lab without so much as making eye contact with any of the others for fear of what they’ll see.

Grant will come looking for her, of course, but he needs to finish his report first. It should give her the time she needs to straighten herself out.

And sure enough, her brief crying jag is just winding down when he appears in the doorway of the storage pod she’s chosen to hide in, his lovely (bruised) face creased in concern.

“Jemma?”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffs, wiping at her face. “I just…needed a moment.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, entering the pod.

She scrambles to her feet before he can do anything silly like join her on the floor (he takes so little care with himself) and gives him her best smile.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m fine, I just—I just needed a moment.”

“Yeah,” he says, frowning. “You said that already.” He cups her face in his hands, studying her expression, and then presses a warm kiss to her forehead and draws her into his arms. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

He’s gotten so much better at this—offering physical comfort—over the course of their relationship. She doesn’t know why that makes her want to cry (again). She hides her face in his chest and doesn’t answer.

“Jemma.” He rubs her back gently. “Come on. What is it?”

She should tell him. She should absolutely tell him. She didn’t tell him before he left the Hub and he nearly  _died_. There’s no way of knowing what will happen next—what’s coming.

He deserves to know.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, and pulls away from him. He lets her go with clear reluctance, frowning, and she starts to pace. She can’t look him in the eye while she says this. “I should have told you before, but at first I wasn’t sure, and then—well, and then our entire world fell apart and you were leaving and I didn’t want it to distract you while you were—”

“Jemma,” he interrupts, which is just as well. That sentence wasn’t going anywhere good, honestly. “What do you need to tell me?”

She can’t look him in the eye while she says this, but she also can’t  _not_. She takes a deep breath, steels herself, and turns to face him.

“I’m pregnant.”

Grant’s face goes blank. She’s fairly certain he’s stopped breathing. “You’re what.”

It’s not a question, and he doesn’t sound pleased at all. Which is fair; it’s not as though  _she’s_ particularly happy about this. She wrings her hands, willing herself not to cry ( _again_ ).

“I’m pregnant,” she repeats. “About six weeks along.” She makes an attempt at a smile which fails rather miserably. “Apparently we haven’t been as careful as we’ve thought.”

He scrubs a hand over his mouth, and she waits, tense, as emotions war on his face. There are too many to keep track, really, and he’s difficult to read at the best of times, so she has no idea what he’s thinking right now.

“You’re—” He swallows. “And I’m—”

She nods mutely as he cuts himself off, and his expression settles into something resolved. He closes the distance between them in two strides and catches her up in his arms, holding her tightly.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he vows, and the intensity in his voice is almost frightening. “To  _either_  of you.”

After the chaos and fear of the last few days, it’s exactly what she needs to hear (which is unusual for Grant; he’s very sweet, but words are not his strong suit), and she takes a moment to absorb it—to let the words ease some of the tightness in her chest. Her entire world has been turned upside down this week, but if nothing else, she knows she can trust this: that Grant will do everything in his power to protect them. Not just Jemma and their developing child (and this is one area of biology where her knowledge is sadly lacking; she has a lot of research in her future), but their team as a whole.

Grant will keep them safe, even if it costs him his life. (And she’ll do everything in  _her_  power to make certain that it doesn’t.)

However, while it’s what she  _needs_  to hear, it’s not what she  _wants_  to hear. So, after a moment, she leans back, trying to make eye contact.

“You’re not angry?” she checks.

“No,” he says at once. “Not at all.” He smiles down at her, expression the lightest she’s ever seen from him. “The timing sucks, but—I’m happy.”

She sighs, relieved, and melts against him once more. “I’m glad.”

The timing is unfortunate in more than one way. Even besides the terrible circumstances they’ve found themselves in—on the run from HYDRA and the US government both, identities erased, completely unable to know friend from foe beyond the members of their team—they haven’t been together very long at all. It’s only been a few months; they haven’t even reached  _love_  status, let alone  _raise a child together_  status.

She would have done this—had this child,  _their_  child—alone if necessary. She might not even have minded.

But she’s glad she doesn’t have to.

“I’m happy,” he repeats, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “And I’ll take care of you both, Jemma. I promise.”


	42. providential timing: 4 and 3/4 hours later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "time stamp prompt: four and three-quarter hours after providential timing"

In the end, it’s easy.

Coulson, once informed that Jemma is pregnant, immediately agrees that she can’t accompany the splinter team to Portland. And while he’s angry with May, he’s not angry enough to put the mission at risk by going to face down Daniels with no one but Fitz and Trip for back-up.

In no time at all, the greatest threats to Grant’s plan are gone, leaving him alone in Providence with Jemma, Skye, and Koenig.

Learning that Skye’s hard drive is location based changes his plan, but only a little. The base elements remain the same: take the Bus and the girls to Garrett. That they’ll apparently have to make a stop along the way is merely inconvenient—and unfortunate for Koenig.

Koenig didn’t play into his original plans, but Grant doesn’t have anything against him. He probably would’ve knocked him out, left him in a closet somewhere for the team to find when they got back. But knowing that they can’t go straight to Havana when they leave…

He needs a way to keep Jemma and Skye under control. He’s got them beat in strength, height, and training, but they’re two to his one, and that’s not an advantage to scoff at. And while violence is always an effective means of influence, he’s not willing to hurt Jemma.

The best way to keep them in line without hurting them is fear. And the best way to scare them…

Well.

He comes back from double checking that May finished repairing the Bus’ fuel line before leaving (she did, and also, thankfully, filled it up) to find that Jemma and Skye are in the process of convincing Koenig that Skye should hack an NSA satellite to get footage of HYDRA’s invasion of the Fridge. Koenig is hesitant, and Skye turns to Grant for support.

“It’s a good idea,” Skye insists. “We can see which way the prisoners headed when they escaped  _and_ we can find out which players are major enough in HYDRA to lead the assault.”

“It is a good idea,” Grant acknowledges, because it is. “There’s just one problem.”

“The fact that we’re already in enough trouble with the government  _without_  getting caught hacking the NSA?” Koenig guesses.

“No,” Grant says. “The fact that  _I_  was the one who led the assault.”

Then, before any of them has the chance to process the implications of that statement and react, he draws his gun and shoots Koenig twice in the chest. Jemma makes a noise like she’s choking back a scream; Skye stares for a second, stunned, and then goes for the desk.

“Don’t,” Grant orders, aiming the gun at her, and she freezes. “Don’t try anything. I’m better than you, Skye; all you’re gonna do is get yourself killed.”

“Grant,” Jemma says, tremulous. “What are you doing?”

“Speeding things up,” he says. “The cover was never gonna last forever and I’ve got things to do. No point in dancing around it any longer.”

“You’re HYDRA,” Skye says. Her eyes are filled with tears, but her face is twisted in hate. “You son of a bitch.”

“Guilty,” he shrugs. He risks a glance at Jemma; she has one hand covering her mouth and the other clutching the arm of the couch. She looks like she’s about to be sick. “No hard feelings. I’ve been HYDRA for a lot longer than I’ve known either one of you.”

Jemma lowers her hand, presses it to her throat. “You think that makes it  _better_?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “Just saying; it’s nothing personal.”

“If it’s nothing personal, then why did you come back?” she demands. His heart twinges a bit at the way she’s looking at him, but there’s nothing for it. “You got away clean—none of us suspected you at all.”

“I came back for the hard drive,” he says. “I need it decrypted.” He shrugs. “My original plan was a little less…flashy, but then you gave me a reason to speed up the timetable.”

She goes white, and he frowns. He knows stress isn’t good for pregnant women, but is that true for the whole time? Or only later on? He doesn’t know anything at all about pregnancy, beyond the basic hows and whys—he’s never had reason to care.

He cares now, though. He cares a lot.

“Try and calm down,” he advises her, just in case. “You like you’re about to faint. Take some  deep breaths.”

“I cannot believe you just said that to me,” she says, incredulous, and he can’t help but smile. She’s just so  _Jemma_  sometimes; anyone else would’ve sworn at him for that. “You just  _murdered_  Agent Koenig in front of us, and you think—”

He interrupts her by firing a warning shot into the ground at Skye’s feet as he catches her inching towards Koenig’s desk in his peripheral vision. He suspects there’s a weapon hidden in one of the drawers, and even if there’s not, he’s not stupid enough to let her near the computers.

Jemma chokes on her words; Skye stumbles back with a curse.

“I told you not to try anything,” he reminds her.

“You’re not gonna kill me,” she says, voice shaky but confident. “You need me alive to unlock the hard drive.”

“Alive,” he acknowledges. “But not necessarily unharmed. I don’t  _want_  to hurt you, Skye, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.” He gestures pointedly with the gun, and she moves away from Koenig’s desk. “Next bullet goes in your knee.”

“Okay,” she says, hands raised placatingly. “I won’t try anything again.” She takes a deep breath. “So what now?”

“Now,” he says. “We’re gonna take a little field trip.”

She eyes him cautiously. “Fine. But only if you leave Simmons here.”

“Skye,  _no_!”

“You don’t need her,” she continues, ignoring Jemma’s interjection. “Just—leave her here. Don’t hurt her. And I’ll unlock the hard drive for you, no tricks.”

“Oh, you’re gonna unlock the hard drive,” he agrees. “But Jemma’s coming with us.” He gives her a pleasant smile. “You don’t really expect me to leave the mother of my future child behind, do you?”

Jemma drags in a shuddering breath. Skye goes still.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. “I know you wanted to wait a while before telling the others, but I really think Skye needs the whole story, don’t you?”

“Simmons,” Skye says weakly. “You—you’re pregnant?”

“She is,” Grant confirms, when Jemma doesn’t answer. “Great news, right? Personally, I’m excited.”

He’s mostly saying it to throw Skye off-balance, because she’s got a look in her eyes like she’s still thinking about doing something stupid, but it’s also the truth. He wasn’t expecting it and  _definitely_ wasn’t planning for it, but now that it’s happening, he’s looking forward to it.

He’s going to be a father. He’s going to be a  _good_  father. And part of being a good father is getting the mother of his child far away from the shit-show that is Coulson’s team. They’ve got nothing, right now—no manpower, no resources, no  _identities_ —and instead of trying to fix it, Coulson is dragging them into even more trouble.

He’ll get them all killed before Jemma’s even showing. Grant can’t let that happen.

“You promised to protect us,” Jemma whispers, obviously thinking along similar lines.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he tells her. “You’ll be safe with HYDRA.”

“I’m a SHIELD agent,” she reminds him, and despite the tears slipping down her face, there’s steel in her voice. “Safe is the  _last_  thing I’ll be in HYDRA’s hands.”

“I have connections,” he says. “You’ll be taken care of, Jemma. You can have a nice, peaceful pregnancy with access to some of the world’s best doctors in case anything goes wrong.”

“Do you even  _hear_  yourself?” Skye snaps. “You’re sick, Ward.”

“That hurts, Skye,” he says mildly.

“She’s right,” Jemma says. “But she’s left out the fact that you’re also  _deluded_. Do you honestly believe that HYDRA will be content to  _imprison_  a scientist of my caliber? I’ll be forced into working for them within hours.”

“No, you won’t,” he promises. “If you want to work for them, I’ll be happy to set something up. But it’ll be your choice.”

“You’re fooling yourself,” she snaps. “As soon as I set foot in whichever base you take us to, they’ll be threatening me—threatening our  _child_ , Grant.”

“HYDRA knows better than to play those games with me,” he says, voice dark with remembered rage, and it’s enough to have her shrinking back against the couch. Skye is eyeing him warily.

Grant is one of the best, and HYDRA knows it. They tried to reassign him once, direct him away from Garrett’s crusade and onto the main objective—and when he refused, they threatened to kill Garrett if he didn’t cooperate.

Needless to say, Grant shut  _that_  down quickly. HYDRA isn’t stupid enough to try that trick again.

“You’ll be safe,” he reiterates. “You—and our baby—will have everything you could possibly want.”

Without removing his eyes—or his gun—from Skye, he crosses to the couch and offers his free hand to Jemma.

“Now, come on,” he says. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

It takes a minute, but eventually she accepts his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. Her hand is cold in his; when he gives it a comforting squeeze, she tenses. He frowns.

He’d rather she be afraid of him than have to hurt her, but that doesn’t mean he  _likes_  her fear.

Still, he can live with it. It’s not like it’s forever. Once he’s got her away from here and safe, he’ll explain everything. She’ll understand.

For the time being, though, he’s going to have to make it a bit worse.

“I want you two to think about this,” he says. “I’m not gonna hurt Jemma. That means that if either one of you pulls  _anything_ , it’s gonna be Skye who pays for it.” He focuses on Skye and adds, “And before you go thinking that it’s a risk you’re willing to take, keep in mind that anything happening to you leaves Jemma alone in HYDRA. Do you understand?”

If looks could kill, he’d be dead twice over. Skye especially looks like she’d like to shove him in a meat grinder. After a long, tense moment, though, both of them nod. Jemma makes a half-hearted attempt to tug her hand away from his, but when he doesn’t let her, she doesn’t try again.

He’s gonna take that as a good sign.

“Good,” he says, and holsters his gun. “Then let’s go.”


	43. "You're the only one I trust to do this" (Ward/Kara; Jemma/Ward)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "biospecialist "you're the only one I trust to do this""

Jemma is having a bad day.

Well, Jemma is having a bad  _year_ , really, but today has been particularly awful.

First she was grabbed off the street in broad daylight, restrained, shoved into the boot of a car, and driven over what must have been every pothole in the Northeastern United States. Then, once the car arrived at its destination, she was pulled out of the boot by none other than Grant Ward, who was addressed as  _sir_  and saluted by her kidnappers.

And now she’s being dragged down a corridor, headed who knows where. Ward has a bruising grip on her arm, the handcuffs are digging into her wrists, and the fact that she has to take two and a half steps for every one of his is especially unfortunate in that she appears to have twisted her left ankle at some point in the proceedings.

So, yes, it’s a bad day. And she has the regrettable suspicion that it’s about to get worse.

It’s hard to find her voice to confirm it, however. She’s been frightened of Ward before—when he caught her and Fitz in the airfield in Cuba, when he dropped them out of the Bus, and when he held a gun to her head, to name only a few examples—but never as frightened as she is in this moment. Mostly, she thinks, it’s because she’s never seen him this  _angry_  before. In Cuba, he was cold—blindly following orders, barely speaking a single word to them. In the arctic, he was condescending, feigning disappointment.

Now, he’s clearly furious, and it’s terrifying.

“Ward,” she says. “What are you doing? Why have you brought me here?”

There’s a waver in her voice, but she thinks she can be excused for it. All she can think of is Bobbi, of the signs of torture littering her body—signs Jemma had to ignore in favor of treating the entry and exit wounds from a very nearly fatal gunshot. Jemma has no illusions about her fortitude; she knows she won’t last even half as long under torture as Bobbi did.

“Last time we met, I saved your life,” Ward reminds her. “Now you’re gonna return the favor.”

Part of her is tempted to point out that deciding not to kill her  _hardly_  counts as saving her life, but the rest of her is aware that this isn’t the time to argue semantics.

“How?” she asks instead. “You look—well, you’re clearly not in  _perfect_  health, but all of your injuries appear superficial. You don’t need  _me_  for a few cuts and abrasions; an on-call at your local health clinic could treat those.”

“Not for me,” he grits out. His fingers dig into her arm even further, and a choked little gasp escapes her despite her best efforts to hold it back. “For Kara.”

Before she can seek further clarification, they come to a halt at the end of the corridor, and he shoves her through an open door—into a makeshift hospital room. Agent Palamas is in the bed, looking horridly pale, and a quick glance at the readouts on the monitors surrounding her tells Jemma that she’s in very dire straits, indeed.

“I—”

“She was shot,” Ward says, moving past her to stand by the bed. He brushes his fingers over Palamas’ cheek in a gesture she’d almost call tender—were it not  _Ward_  making it. “Three times.” He smooths Palamas’ hair away from her face, voice softening. “She almost didn’t make it out of Spain. Luckily, I’ve got friends there. She’s had surgery—and a few transfusions. But she’s not stable, not yet.”

“Ward, I’m not—”

“You  _are_  a doctor,” he snaps, turning sharply to face her. “Maybe you didn’t start out that way, but like hell you’re gonna convince me you’re not one now. Coulson’s had you playing medic for more than a year—I bet you’re all read up on practicing medicine.”

It’s true, and she can’t deny it. It was less than eight hours ago—well, less than eight hours before she was kidnapped; she’s entirely lost track of time, at this point—that she led the team performing the surgery that saved Bobbi’s life.

“I’m not a miracle worker,” she says carefully. “I don’t know what you think I can do that your  _friends_  in Spain didn’t.”

“What you can do is keep her alive,” he says, closing the distance between them. “See, I didn’t bring you here for whatever half-hearted medical training you’ve picked up in the last year and a half.” He sets his hands on her shoulders and turns her none too gently to face the other side of the room—a makeshift laboratory to match the makeshift hospital room. She has no idea how she missed it upon entering, but then, she’s had reason to be distracted. “I’ve got a miracle drug. You’re gonna figure out how to use it.”

“A miracle drug?” she echoes, unsettled. “You don’t mean—”

“No,” Ward interrupts, hands flexing on her shoulders. “Not the GH-325.” He’s pressed right up against her back, so closely that she can feel the heat of his skin through her shirt. “Something else. Something of Whitehall’s.”

She swallows. “Whitehall had a miracle drug?”

“Oh, he had lots of miracle drugs. But this one in particular saved his life more than once.” He moves even closer, leaning down to speak directly into her ear. “Now you’re gonna use it to save Kara.” He slides his hands off of her shoulders and down her arms to grip her just above her elbows. “And as soon as she’s back on her feet, you’ll be free to leave.”

She’s fairly certain that she doesn’t want to know, but she has to ask. Both because her sense of morbid curiosity demands it and to get her mind off the way he’s touching her. It’s been—well, she doesn’t want to consider how long it’s been since anyone touched her for so long. She’s had nothing but the occasional very brief hug or a quick brush of hands since before she went undercover, and apparently she’s feeling touch-starved enough that even this, an incredibly  _threatening_  display from a man she despises, is enough to have something in her chest unlocking. It’s distressing and she’d rather not think about it.

So she asks, “And if I fail?”

“If you fail,” Ward muses, and turns her to face him again. The smile he gives her is pleasant, and somehow even more terrifying than his earlier rage. “If you fail, I’ll send you back to Coulson in pieces. And then I’ll get mean.”

He sounds sincere—disturbingly so—and Jemma feels as though all the oxygen’s gone out of the room. It’s a sensation with which she is unfortunately familiar, and she forces herself to breathe through it.

“May did this to Kara,” he tells her. He runs his hands down her arms to her wrists, then releases one in order to draw a key out of his pocket and unlock her handcuffs as he adds, “She’s gonna pay for that. But how badly she pays is up to you. Kara lives, I restrict my retaliation to May alone. Kara dies? Well, I think we both know that watching her whole team die will hurt May worse than dying herself.” He pockets the handcuffs and gives her another smile. “We clear?”

“Crystal,” she says. She rubs at her wrists as she eases back one step—then, when Ward doesn’t stop her, another. “What do you have on the drug?”

“Not much,” he admits. “Whitehall kept things pretty close to the chest. But…smart girl like you, I’m sure you can figure it out.” He motions to the lab area. “What notes I was able to find about it are all there. And when you’re ready, I’ve got a whole room full of injured civilians just waiting to play test subject.”

…He  _what_?

“I am not going to run  _human trials_ ,” she begins, incensed, but a sharp motion from Ward stops her.

“You can try to save them with that drug, or I can spare myself the trouble of keeping them and just kill them all,” he says. “Up to you.”

The mere idea is abhorrent, but there’s something in Ward’s expression that tells her those civilians will suffer worse in  _not_  serving as her test subjects. She swallows down the rest of her objections and turns to face the lab, focusing on breathing through her still-rising panic.

“It’s a tall order,” she says eventually. “You’ve not given me much to go on.”

“You’re the only one I trust to do this,” he says. “I have complete faith in your ability to—what did you call it? Pull a miracle out of your back pocket?”

The words make her wince. It’s a direct quote from a rant she directed at him once whilst patching him up, back before SHIELD fell—before she knew who he really was. She was annoyed at Coulson, who had demanded a quick solution to a seemingly insurmountable problem, and Ward, forced by the need for stitches to remain still, was a captive audience as she vented her frustration.

Somehow, remembering that—remembering his patient attention to her words and his awkward attempt to calm her down—makes all of this so much worse.

They were friends, once.

“You saved the day then,” he reminds her. “And you’ll do it this time, too.” She flinches as his hand lands on her shoulder, but all he does is give her a light shove towards the lab. “Or else.”

She doesn’t ask  _or else_   _what_ , as the consequences for failure have already been made clear.

“When I save her,” she checks, careful not to say  _if_ , “I’ll be allowed to leave?”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “I’ll drive you back to the Playground myself, if you like.”

It’s hardly convincing, and she has the sinking feeling that no matter what happens, the only way she’s leaving this situation is in a body bag. But what else can she do? Ward appears to have a surprisingly—and worryingly—large operation; even if she, by some miracle, managed to overpower him, there’s no possible way she could slip past the numerous large and well-armed men she saw hanging about when she arrived.

She can’t escape. And she doesn’t think she has it in her to let  _anyone_ —let alone a woman like Palamas, who if not precisely innocent is at the least very, very misguided—die solely out of spite.

“Time’s wasting,” he says. “Get to work.”

What else can she do? She’s out of options.

She gets to work.


	44. cheating (Ward/Kara; past Ward/Jemma)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo asked: "bio specialist, grant cheated on jemma"

“Hey, Jemma. You got a minute?”

Avoiding someone, Jemma muses wistfully, only works if they play along. She really should have expected that Grant wouldn’t.

“No,” she says flatly. “Go away.”

“Come on,” he says. “It’ll just be a minute, I swear.”

She sighs and turns to face him, mostly out of curiosity. In the last year, he’s continued to treat her like his wife: speaking to her with endearments, with affection, with an intimate tone. This tone, friendly but not overly familiar—the sort of tone he might use with Coulson or May—is new.

Finding Kara Palamas beside him does a lot to explain it.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“He doesn’t,” Kara says. “ _I_  do.” She inches forward, putting some space between herself and Grant. “That is, I wanted to speak to you. I know it’s not a great time, but…”

“It’s fine,” Jemma says, deliberately softening her voice. Grant has a whole host of crimes to answer for. He’s the enemy, a traitor—he’s  _evil_ —and trusting him is the stupidest thing Coulson’s done this week. But Kara’s crimes were not her fault, and while Jemma certainly doesn’t approve of the company she’s keeping, she won’t take that out on her. “What can I do for you, Agent Palamas?”

Kara brightens a touch, which makes Jemma’s heart hurt. She’s heard the others address Kara repeatedly as Agent 33, and she understands why that would bother her. Being brainwashed is one of Jemma’s worst nightmares, and has been since she watched the fight leech slowly out of Donnie on that ship. To lose her  _name_  on top of it?

She can’t even imagine.

“This is awkward,” Kara says. She lets out a little breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and pushes her hair behind her ear. “Grant’s said that you two aren’t—that things are—” She grimaces. “I’m sorry, I really have no idea how to ask this.”

Jemma would love to help her—if only to get the two of them out of her lab as quickly as possible—but she honestly has no idea what this is about. Reluctantly, she looks to Grant.

He’s smiling fondly, but not at her. It’s aimed at Kara.

She’s…not entirely certain how she feels about that.

“Kara’s worried that you might be upset that she and I are together,” he explains.

“I know the two of you have broken up,” Kara adds hurriedly. “But you  _are_  still married. I don’t want to—to step on any toes or be the other woman or…anything like that.”

Jemma stares at them, speechless. She doesn’t know what’s more shocking: that they’re actually having this discussion, or that her immediate impulse is  _not_  to say that Kara is welcome to him.

He’s a traitor. A liar. A  _murderer_. But he’s also her husband, and as much as she hates him, the idea of him being with anyone else makes her feel—something. It makes a part of her—a part she thought she’d lost, discarded, tossed into the flames with the rest of her old life—feel small and wounded and terribly, terribly angry.

Which is clearly ridiculous. Grant moving on from her is a  _relief_ , not something to be upset about.

“Jemma?” he prompts.

“I’m not upset,” she assures Kara. “Frankly, I think you can do much better, but if Grant’s what you want, you’re welcome to him. It’s not cheating; he and I are done.”

“Oh, good,” Kara sighs, relieved. “Thank you.” She pauses. “Is that a weird thing to say? That’s probably a weird thing to say. I’m not  _thanking_  you for him, I’m just.” She makes a little face. “I’m just not the kind of woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband. Or at least I hope I’m not.”

Jemma is surprised to find herself smiling at the end of that. Something about Kara gives her the feeling that under different circumstances, they might have been very good friends. She feels the same sort of instant connection to her that she did to Bobbi—and while  _that_  didn’t end very well, it’s still a nice feeling.

“I understand,” she says after a moment, because Kara is starting to look worried. Actually, thinking on her words, Jemma is a bit concerned, herself. “And, forgive me for asking, but—you  _hope_  you’re not?”

“Yes,” Kara says, smiling weakly. Grant moves closer to her and rests a hand on her shoulder; the smile she gives him is both grateful and gorgeous, and Jemma has no idea how to categorize her own reaction to it. “We fixed the brainwashing, but things are still a little fuzzy. I’m not completely sure about…myself.”

“I see,” Jemma says, frowning to herself. Perhaps… “You aren’t going on the mission to the arctic, are you?”

“Um, no.”

“Neither am I,” she says. “Which leaves me rather at loose ends for the moment. Perhaps while the team is away, we can see about clearing things up for you. If nothing else, we can confirm that there are no lingering traces of programming hiding in your brain.”

Kara brightens. “You can do that?”

“You’d be surprised what Jemma’s capable of,” Grant says, smiling.

Jemma ignores him. “I can, if you’d like.”

“I would,” Kara says. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jemma says. “Come find me once the team’s left; I’ll see what we can do for you.”

“Thank you,” Kara repeats, beaming. “Really.”

There’s something very painful about being thanked for offering to assure someone that they’ve been completely cured of brainwashing. Jemma is forced to suppress the urge to give Kara a hug.

Grant doesn’t bother, and she looks away, uncomfortable, as the two of them embrace.

 _Why_  she’s uncomfortable, she couldn’t say. Because her ex-husband is hugging another woman in front of her? Or because she has the sneaking suspicion that she’s not actually as uncomfortable as she should be?

Best not to examine that thought too closely, she thinks.

“We’ll let you get back to work,” Grant says, drawing her attention back to them. “Sorry for the interruption.”

She can’t quite bring herself to offer forgiveness for it—for anything—so she simply nods.

“I’ll see you later?” Kara checks.

“I’ll be here,” Jemma confirms, and turns back to her desk.

She doesn’t watch them leave.

She’s not sure why.


	45. obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "biospecialist obsession"

Grant has been keeping track of the days.

Closely.

There’s not a lot to distract himself with, down in this cell. He had books, at first, but they were taken away after his second suicide attempt. Aside from working out, all he has are Coulson’s visits—and those are always quick. It’s tempting to actually answer Coulson’s questions, if only to prolong the visits, give himself a distraction other than his own mind, but he stays firm.

He’s only going to talk to Jemma.

Sooner or later, they’ll be desperate enough to send her down here. It’s the only thought that keeps him going. He needs to see her. He needs to  _know_.

In the meantime, he’s got plenty to think about.

He thinks about that day in Cuba a lot. The airfield. Jemma’s desperate fear when she laid eyes on him, the way she grabbed his arm and  _begged_  him when he told the HYDRA grunts to put her and Fitz on the Bus.

He laughed at her, then—but of course he did. He didn’t  _know_. He hadn’t been paying attention to her the way he should have been. Between Skye getting shot, Lorelei, and the uprising, he’d barely given her a second look.

If he had, he would have noticed.

But he didn’t. He had  _no idea_ , until the airfield, when he laughed at her and she gave him that look—half terror, half resolve—and tugged her shirt up to show him the gentle curve to her stomach.

_How long do you think our child will survive in HYDRA’s hands?_

He should have been paying better attention to her, he thinks. After their encounter, he wrote her off. She trusted him completely and he didn’t feel the need to put any more effort into her. He was distracted—blinded—by his feelings for Skye.

If he’d known—if he’d  _seen_ —he never would have let his cover go so easily.

It’s been 248 days. Not that he’s been in this cell, but since the one night he and Jemma spent together—her grief-stricken over Seth Dormer and him just tired, exhausted by the effort of maintaining his good guy cover.

248 days. It’s creeping up on nine months.

He’ll be a father soon.

He’s going to be a good one. Better than his own father—better than John, even.

He has to get out of this cell first, but once he does…he’ll be a good father.

He  _will_. It’s important.

He aches with it—with how badly he wants to be a father to his child.  _Their_  child.

He hasn’t seen Jemma since the airfield, since he killed the HYDRA grunts and let her and Fitz go. He doesn’t know how the pregnancy’s going or whether she’s even at this base. He doesn’t know whether it’s a girl or a boy, whether she’s picked out names.

Well, okay, it’s  _Jemma_. Of course she’s picked out names.

But he doesn’t know what those names are. He doesn’t know whether she’s going to have the baby here—he knows they must have doctors on staff, since  _someone_  saved his life when he tried to end it, but do they have obstetricians? Somehow, he doubts it.

He doesn’t know  _anything_.

Except that it’s been 248 days.

It’s driving him crazy.

He’s halfway through his second set of push-ups when the barrier to his cell goes transparent. It’s been a few days and Coulson’s due for a visit, so he doesn’t think anything of it—until, that is, he sees that it’s Jemma on the other side.

“Jemma,” he says. He’s on his feet at once, approaching the barrier, and next to Jemma, Coulson twitches.

Grant barely even looks at him. He’s looking over Jemma, taking her in.

She’s not pregnant anymore, that much is obvious. She’s had the baby already. Recently, he thinks.

He’s a father. For real. He feels a little dizzy at the thought.

But she doesn’t look happy—excited—the way a new mother should. She looks terrified and angry. Her eyes are red and swollen, face streaked with tears. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides.

“Something’s happened,” he says, searching her face. “What is it?”

“You said you want to be a father,” she says. Her voice is wrecked, like she’s been screaming. “Did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course I did.” He glances at Coulson, absorbs his angry expression. “Why?”

“Our daughter was born two days ago.”

Their  _daughter_.

The word makes his head spin. He feels—giddy. He kind of wants to laugh. He has a  _daughter_ , a little girl.

He wonders what she looks like. If she’s got his eyes or Jemma’s. How big she is. How big she’s going to  _be_.

Right now, she’s probably only about ten pounds—small enough to hold in his hands. But someday she’s going to grow up. She might—will probably, considering his own height—be taller than Jemma.

He’s a  _father_.

“What’s her name?” he asks.

Jemma takes a deep breath. “Sofia. Sofia Rosalind Simmons.”

Simmons, not Ward. Well, it’s only to be expected. He’ll change her mind eventually.

“Sofia,” he says, testing it out. “It’s pretty.”

“So is she,” she says. Her bottom lip trembles. “She’s gorgeous.”

Her expression reaches past his giddiness—his excitement—to punch him right in the gut. He forgot, for a second, that there’s something wrong.

“Tell me what’s happened,” he orders.

“Someone took her,” Jemma says. Her voice is shaking and so, he suddenly realizes, is she. “They kidnapped her right out of the hospital.”

Rage rises up to choke him, and for a second he has to turn away, to struggle with it. He needs to be calm. Emotion makes him sloppy—makes him careless.

Someone took his daughter. He’s going to kill them. He’s going to find them and tear them to pieces and then he’ll cross off every person they’ve ever spoken to, just for good measure.

He’ll find Sofia. He’ll make sure she’s safe.

But to do that, he has to be out of this cell, and all of his plans revolve around the long game.

There’s no time for the long game. He needs to get his act together, needs to be clear-headed so he can talk his way out of his cell here and now.

“You’re going to get her back,” Jemma says, and he turns quickly to face her.

“What?”

“Someone took our daughter and  _you_  are going to get her back,” she reiterates. “You are going to find her. You are going to bring her home to me. And then you are going to make them pay.”

Her expression dares him to argue, but that’s one dare he’s not interested in taking. He wants to do exactly what she’s just said.

“I am,” he agrees at once. “I will, Jemma. I promise.”

She looks at him for a long minute, and he tries to project sincerity.  _Real_  sincerity. He means it. He absolutely means it.

He’ll get their daughter back and then he’ll  _destroy_  whoever took her.

“I believe you,” Jemma says eventually. She turns to Coulson. “Let him out.”

“Simmons,” Coulson hesitates. “Are you sure you want to do this? The team—”

“The team has had three hours to find her and has turned up  _nothing_ ,” she snaps. “Either you let Ward out, or I’ll do it myself.”

He sighs. “We’re really going to regret this.”

But he lets down the barrier, and that’s all that matters. For the first time in 157 days, Grant steps out of his cell. Coulson is watching him warily, one hand on an ICER, like he’s just waiting for Grant to make a move to snap Jemma’s neck.

Grant ignores him in favor of Jemma. There’s no fear in her eyes as she looks up at him, only expectation. It might not be something she’s consciously acknowledged, but clearly she trusts him. She trusts him to save Sofia and punish the people who took her.

And she’s absolutely right to.

He sets his hands on her shoulders—steadying, comforting—and meets her eyes. She doesn’t flinch away.

“Tell me what we know.”

He’s going to get his daughter back. There’s no question about it. That’s what matters.

And if, in the process, he happens to win over her mother? Well.

That’s just a bonus.


	46. "You know how this works. Take it off"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo asked: "biospecialist, "You know how this works. Take it off.""

“You know how this works, take it off.”

Not for the first time, Jemma is grateful that the damage May did to his larynx has rendered Ward temporarily mute. As it is, the flirty look he gives her speaks volumes, and she can feel herself start to flush.

“You know what I meant,” she snaps. “Take the bandage off; let me see your foot.”

He gives her a little  _your loss_  shrug, but sits down on the ground just inside the barrier to unwind the bandage from his left foot obediently. She’s left with the absurd urge to cry; how is it, she wonders, that in a base full of people, the person who upsets her the  _least_  is the man who tried to kill her less than two weeks ago?

She hates herself for it, for the fact that part of her is amused by him—and another part fascinated, intrigued by the many, many differences between this Ward and the Ward she spent six months living and working beside. This Ward is animated, cocky—perfectly capable of making himself understood, even without the benefit of speech. He’s an entirely different person, and part of her—the scientist in her, she supposes—almost wants to spend even more time down here, observing and documenting the differences between the cover and the real man.

Still, it’s not entirely shocking that Ward, of all people, is the person who upsets her the least. After all, he’s the only person treating  _her_  like a person—another absurdity, considering his very recent attempt to end her life, but it’s the only way she can describe it.

Everyone else on base persists in treating her like a grieving widow, and it’s unbearable.

She and Fitz never had that sort of relationship—and never will, no matter his feelings—so it’s ridiculous to think she would deserve such treatment even if he  _had_  died. The fact that he  _didn’t_  makes it all the more ridiculous.

Fitz isn’t dead. He’s  _different_ , but he isn’t dead. For Jemma, who spent nine terrible days seated at his bedside fearing that he would never wake,  _different_  is a blessing. It’s a miracle.

For everyone else—some of whom she suspects think Fitz would have been better off dead, though she doesn’t dare confront them about it for fear of what she’ll do— _different_ is something to be upset about. They treat  _different_  like it means  _diminished_ , like Fitz’s sudden difficulties with speaking and fine motor control indicate a lack of intelligence.

It’s infuriating. And that they act as though Jemma should be just as upset as they makes it twice as awful as it otherwise might have been.

Her attention is drawn back to the situation at hand by a sudden flash of light, and she realizes that Ward has tapped on the barrier to draw her eyes. He raises an expectant eyebrow, and she clears her throat.

“Let me see,” she orders, and he extends his foot obediently.

She crouches right next to the line, extending a hand to balance herself against the barrier as she examines his injury. From this side, there’s no flare of light upon contact with the barrier; it remains invisible but reassuringly solid.

It only takes a glance at the red and swollen skin around his wound to determine that Ward has  _not_ been following her instructions.

“You’ve been working out again, haven’t you?” she demands, scowling at him. “I thought I told you to stay off this foot.”

He shrugs and spreads his hands, gesturing around the cell as though to emphasize the lack of entertainment aside from exercise available to him, and she sighs.

It’s a fair point. He has to while away the hours  _somehow_. Even legitimate prisons don’t expect prisoners to spend all day sitting about staring at the walls. And while they can hardly put him to work or let him out into an exercise yard…

Prisons have libraries, don’t they?

“I’ll see about getting you something to read,” she promises.

How much harm could he do with a book?

He gives her a smile, and she hates that she reads gratitude in it. She’s likely playing into some nefarious plan of his, but what’s there to be done about it? They really can’t continue to leave him here with nothing to occupy his attention.

“In the meantime, though,” she says, “I really must insist that you put as little strain as possible on your foot. If you’re not careful, it will need further treatment, and I’m beginning to get concerned about how frequently we sedate you.”

At this rate, he may begin to feel long-term effects…or even worse, develop an immunity.

Ward nods solemnly and then holds up the bandage in silent question.

“Yes,” she says. “Go ahead and replace it.”

As always, he does so quickly and efficiently. He’s just tucking the ends in when the door at the top of the stairs opens, and Trip pokes his head in.

“Simmons,” he says. “We need you in the lab.”

Her heart sinks at his tone, which clearly communicates that it is, in fact,  _Fitz_  who needs her. She hopes he hasn’t become belligerent again; he’s been scaring the lab techs with his attitude, and it always takes hours to calm them down—to say nothing of Fitz himself.

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks,” Trip says, and leaves.

She closes her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength. It seems as though she never has time to rest, these days; in addition to serving as the head of the new SHIELD’s science department, she’s also the de facto Chief of Medicine—entirely by necessity, as Trip, the only other person with any medical training to speak of, is one of very few available specialists.

Forget a full night’s sleep; between her various duties and her nightmares, she can’t recall the last time she slept for four hours without being interrupted.

But there’s no time for self-pity. She’s needed in the lab.

She opens her eyes to find Ward watching her, brow creased. He widens his eyes at her as she stands, and she scowls at him.

“As if  _you_  care,” she snaps, and turns on her heel.

She feels his gaze burning into her all the way up the stairs.


	47. "You don't get style points if you fail"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: ""You don't get style points if you fail" + biospec"

The first thing Grant notices when he enters the room is the enemy agent. He’s on the ground, so close to the door that Grant nearly trips on him, and he’s not moving.

The next thing he notices is Simmons.

She’s on the ground, too, huddled back against the far wall, with one hand cradled against her chest and the other aiming a gun at him. It takes her a second to recognize him—or, more likely, for the sight of him to process—but when she does, she drops the gun at once.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says.

“You okay, Simmons?” he asks. He crouches to examine the downed enemy agent; he’s unconscious, not dead, with a pretty bad knock on his head the obvious cause. It doesn’t look like he’ll be getting up anytime soon, but Grant handcuffs him anyway, just to be safe.

“I’m fine,” she says, but there’s a waver to her voice.

He pretends not to notice it. “I’ll say. You didn’t leave me much to do here.”

“Entirely accidentally, I assure you.”

“What happened?” he asks, crossing the room to her.

“When we heard gunfire, he decided to shoot me,” she tells him as he helps her to her feet. “I attempted to disarm him, and while we were struggling over his gun, we lost our balance. He fell and hit his head and I landed poorly on my wrist.” She shrugs, sheepish. “It was all rather undignified, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t get style points if you fail,” he says, and tips her chin up to get a look at her face. She’s obviously been smacked around some—she’s got some minor bruising, with more coming in, and a split lip—but it doesn’t look like anything’s broken. “Better undignified than dead. Let me see your wrist.”

“That’s a very practical attitude,” she says, extending her arm obediently. She’s shaking, a bit, so he takes her hand to hold it steady as he examines her wrist. “Still, I feel somewhat—”

She breaks off into a choked gasp as he tests her wrist, and he grimaces.

“Sorry,” he says. “I know it hurts. Good news is, I’m pretty sure it isn’t broken. Just a sprain, I think.”

“That’s all right.” Despite the words, she looks a little faint; on top of everything else, the pain might be a little too much for her. “Good news is—is good.”

“Yeah,” he says, and releases her hand. She returns to cradling it against her chest instead of letting it fall to her side, and he has to tamp down a surge of anger at how small and scared she looks.

All things considered, she’s in good shape. A little beat up, probably a  _lot_  traumatized, but overall, she got lucky. She’s been missing for two days, and what with the kind of people who took her…

He was honestly expecting to have to carry her out of here.

Still, lucky or not, the dried blood on her face kind of makes him want to kill someone. A lot of someones. Specifically, every single person in this building. He knows she needs him to be the reassuring protector right now, not the remorseless killer—but it’s not easy.

To give himself a second to recover, he turns away from her and activates his comm.

“I’ve got Simmons,” he reports, moving to check her attacker again. Still out, which means Grant’s got no excuse to kill him, damn it. “She’s a little beat up, but she’s mobile.”

“Good work,” Coulson says, relief plain underneath his professional tone. “Get her out of there; we’ll let our back-up handle the rest of the clean-up.”

“Understood.” He stands and looks at Simmons, who’s hanging back. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yes, please,” she says, and whatever calm he managed to regain disappears in the face of her miserable tone. “Only…”

He moves closer, concerned. “Only what?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Never mind. I’m just being silly.”

“Hey,” he says. “You just spent two days in enemy hands. Nothing’s silly right now.” She’s avoiding his gaze, and he angles his head to make eye contact. “What is it?”

“I just.” She takes a deep breath and makes an attempt at a smile. “I know it’s not something you’re terribly comfortable with, but if you don’t mind…I could really use a hug.”

How is he supposed to keep his cool when she says things like  _that_?

“I think I can manage that,” he says, and hugs her.

It can’t be very comfortable, not when he’s wearing his tac vest, but she melts into him anyway. Holding on to her, the fine tremors running through her are more obvious, and he can feel the hitch in her breathing as she tries to hold back tears.

He really, really wants to kill someone.

He gives it a minute, and then draws back. “Okay?”

“Yes,” she says, and breathes in slowly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says. “Now, come on. I promise, once you’re back with the team, you’re gonna get so many hugs you won’t know what to do with them.”

She gives him a tiny smile. “That would be nice.”

“You say that now,” he says, holding out a hand to keep her in place as he does a quick sweep of the hallway. “By the end of the day you’re gonna be sick of hugging.” The hallway’s clear, so he motions her out. “Skye’s been keeping a tally.”

“I don’t understand,” she says as she follows him down the hall. She’s hugging close to the wall, eyes darting around like she expects enemies around every corner, and it does nothing for the anger he’s still fighting. “A tally?”

“Of how many hugs she owes you,” he clarifies.

He hesitates at a fork, then takes the right hallway. The scenic route will take longer, but better that than letting her see the trail of bodies he left behind while searching the facility for her. Not to mention, he can hear the clean-up effort being coordinated over the comms, and he thinks right now it’s better if they avoid running into anyone she doesn’t know.

“She put a little post-it note on the edge of her laptop and added a mark every time she wanted to hug you.”

After two days with no idea where Simmons was—or even if she was alive—there are a lot of tallies. And he’s pretty sure Skye is totally serious about making up for  _all_  of the missed hugs.

Simmons smiles a little, and then wilts. “I’m sorry for worrying everyone.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “You didn’t ask them to take you.”

“No,” she agrees, brow creasing. “Honestly, I’m not certain why they did. They kept talking about my father, but—my father is a  _florist_. He doesn’t have enemies.”

Grant gives her a sideways look, considering.

“I don’t know if this makes it better or worse,” he says, opening the door to the stairwell. “But…it was a misunderstanding.”

“How so?”

“Coulson’s tangled with these guys in the past,” he tells her. “They saw the two of you out when you made the grocery run a few days ago. Thought you were his daughter.”

She stops on the second-to-last step, staring at him. For a second, he thinks she’s going to cry, but she surprises him by laughing. Kind of tearily, true, but he’ll take it.

“All of this for a misunderstanding,” she says. “Unbelievable.”

“Sorry,” he offers.

She shakes her head. “Don’t be. Just please let’s get out of here.”

“Almost out,” he promises. “Then you’ll have all the hugs you could possibly want.”

“After a debriefing,” she says sadly. “I don’t imagine that will be much fun.”

She’s not wrong. Since they called in for back-up on this one, the debriefing’s going to be with SHIELD, not with Coulson. Chances are it’ll get pretty rough.

“Probably not,” he admits. “But, hey—just say the word, and I’ll shoot them for you.”

She laughs, and this time it doesn’t sound so much like she’s holding back tears.

With that in mind, he decides not to tell her he isn’t joking.


	48. "I'm only judging a little"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: ""I'm only judging a little." biospecialist, please and thank you"

It’s been a long time since Grant last experienced this—waking up handcuffed to a chair in a suitably cliché isolated location (this time, it’s what looks like a hunting lodge; cabin in the woods, nice choice)—but it’s happened to him often enough in his life that it’s almost nostalgia inducing.

Almost. The face that his captor is wearing adds a touch of absurdity that kind of ruins the effect.

“So,” he says. “Of all the people you could have chosen to impersonate, why her?”

The person wearing Simmons’ face looks up from the laptop she’s standing over and gives him a flat stare. Grant raises his hands as far as he can (nearly an inch of give in the shackles; he’ll be out of here in no time), placating.

“I’m only judging a little,” he promises.

“I’m not an impostor,” she says severely. “I am genuinely Jemma Simmons.”

There’s just one problem with that. “Simmons isn’t capable of taking me down.”

“No?” She gives him a sweet smile. “The last time we met, I nearly killed you. I would have, if not for Bakshi’s interference.”

True—and that’s not something a lot of people know about. He knows from Kara’s report that Simmons didn’t correct the others’ assumption that Bakshi was killed by a HYDRA agent, and Grant sure hasn’t been spreading the real story around.

“You have me beaten in skill and strength, yes,” she continues, and closes the laptop. “But I have one advantage over you.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

She rounds the rickety table to approach him, and he watches her, evaluating. A photostatic veil gives a person someone’s face, not their posture or ingrained habits. This woman moves like Simmons does. He doesn’t read any training in her walk—or in her stance. He can tell she’s not armed.

But, seriously. Come on.

“You underestimate me,” she says. “Constantly.” She stops just outside of his reach—or what his reach would be if he weren’t shackled to this chair. “You gave me your back in the arctic without a second thought. And when we ran into each other yesterday, you were so occupied ensuring that I was without back-up that you barely looked at me.” She shrugs. “Always you see me as the helpless, untrained woman I was when we first met.”

Well, she’s not wrong. Still, it’s hard to accept that  _Jemma Simmons_  of all people got one over on him.

Which he guesses kind of proves her point.

“Okay,” he says. “Say I believe you—that you  _are_  Simmons. What’s this about?”

She tilts her head. “What do you think?”

“I think if you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it while I was unconscious,” he says. “And you wouldn’t have bothered dragging me all the way here—wherever here is. I think you want something from me.”

“Perhaps,” she says, rocking back on her heels. “Or perhaps I just wanted to make it slow.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But that’s not really your style, now is it?”

“You have no idea what my style is,” she counters. “However, you are correct. There will be no torture.”

Whether or not there’ll be torture remains to be seen. He’s not happy about this whole exercise, and he does owe SHIELD some serious payback.

…Still, attempted murder (on both their parts) aside, he’s always been fond of Simmons, and he’s strangely reluctant to hurt her  _that_  much.

He’ll probably make it quick when he kills her.

But he wants answers first. “Then why am I here?”

He’s not expecting what she does next: she sits in his lap, threading her legs through the arms of the chair to straddle him. Her hands are ice cold as they cup his face, fingers pressing hard into his skin.

It’s been a while since the last time he had a woman in his lap—since those last, stolen moments with Kara in Spain before SHIELD got her killed—and his thoughts take a brief turn away from murder. He thinks about breaking these shackles (it would only take seconds), about touching her—sliding his hands up under her shirt, finally getting a look at what’s hiding under her staid sweaters and button-downs, warming her skin with his—about kissing her until that blank look leaves her face, until she’s dazed and dreamy and  _desperate_  for him.

He thinks about, and then he puts it away. This isn’t the time, and fucking women who want to kill him hasn’t often ended well for him.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“We have work to do,” she says, and Grant laughs.

“Oh,  _now_  we’re a team?” he asks. “Last time we met you weren’t too crazy about the idea.”

She frowns, letting her hands fall away from his face. “You are not one of us.”

“Really.” He leans back in the chair, ignoring the way her weight shifts over him, to take an exaggerated look around the very empty cabin, and then raises an eyebrow at her. “So who’s we, then?”

“ _I_  am we,” she says, like it’s obvious. “We are us.”

“O-kaaay.” So, sometime in the last year, Simmons lost her mind. Good to know. “Then what do I/we/us and our work have to do with me?”

One hand returns to his face; she trails her fingers along his jaw, then curves them so her nails scrape against his stubble. He breathes through his reaction to the sensation, curling his itching fingers into fists on the arms of his chair. He still wants to touch her.

“We require assistance,” she says.

He laughs. “And you’re asking  _me_?”

“Of all the people we know, you are the best at killing,” she says. “You have a strategic mind.”

Flattering, but true. “And you need to kill people, is that it?”

She’s definitely lost her mind.

“They are not people,” she says sternly. “They are unnatural—a plague, spreading across this Earth. They must be destroyed.”

“ _They_  being…?”

“Inhumans,” she says.

He has to take a second to absorb that. There’s losing her mind and then there’s  _losing her mind_ ; he’s starting to doubt again whether this really is Simmons.

“Inhumans,” he repeats. “You mean powered people. Like Skye.”

“Yes,” she says, pleased. “Precisely.”

It is beyond surreal to be discussing murder—mass murder, possibly genocide, of a group that includes one of her best friends—while Simmons beams at him like they’re back on the Bus and he just managed to ask an intelligent question about her work.

“Real human beings,” he says, leadingly. “With families and friends and…” What other things do people like Simmons get upset about dead people losing? “…dreams?”

“They are  _experiments_ ,” she disagrees. “Remnants of an ancient mistake.”

“And so you’re going to just…kill all of them,” he says. “Including Skye.”

“Yes,” she says. “Including Skye.”

“Well, I can see why you’d need the help,” he muses. Admittedly, he’s been out of the loop, but he knows there are a lot of these  _Inhumans_  running around these days. “But what makes you think I’m gonna do you any favors?”

“You will become one of us,” she says. “You will help us gladly.”

Before he can offer odds on  _that_  ever happening, she’s kissing him.

Her lips are just as cold as her hands, but it’s a good kiss. So is the next one, and the one after that.

She shifts her weight on his lap, deliberately, and slides one hand into his hair. He’s thinking of returning the favor—of breaking these shackles, of testing out the bed against the far wall, of paying her back for bringing him here in the first place—when he realizes just how cold he is.

He wants her—fuck, he wants her like he’s never wanted anyone or anything—but he’s not feeling any of the heat that arousal usually brings.

In fact, he’s shivering.

He tears his mouth away from hers and leans as far back as he can. His panting breaths are visible in the air between them, like winter has suddenly come to this cabin in the middle of August.

“What the fuck?” he asks.

Simmons watches him placidly. “You will become one of us.”

There’s something crawling under his skin, something cold and unpleasant, like the berserker staff in reverse.

“Don’t fight it,” she advises, looking suddenly sad. “It will only hurt.”

He wants to tell her exactly what he thinks of  _that_ , but his throat is closing up. His vision goes dark.

The last thing he sees is Simmons watching him with sad, grey eyes.


	49. you can keep me 'verse snippet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Any chance you're going to write more in the au Biospecialist verse where they were married but Jemma asked for a divorce? Where Ward isn't Hydra (he works with Clint) and only Jemma is on Coulson's team. You posted a ficbit from that universe and I loved it (I miss good guy Ward). Post that fibit, pre that ficbit... anything you feel like sharing from that verse would be lovely! D."
> 
> The [you can keep me](http://archiveofourown.org/series/252298) verse. This takes place pre-divorce, so you shouldn't need to read those to understand this.

Jemma hasn’t moved in hours.

Part of her says she should, that the days are short and it’s silly to waste one like this, but rain is drumming on the roof and the arms around her are warm and it’s difficult to muster up any enthusiasm for ending this perfect moment.

Grant’s lips brush over her hair. “What are you thinking about?”

“We’re being very lazy,” she says, tipping her head back to look at him. They’re lying against the arm of the couch, legs tangled together and stretched out along the length of it, and the way his slight chuckle rumbles through her makes her smile. “What?”

He smiles and dips his head to kiss her—slow and sweet. Arousal curls lazily in her gut, but it’s more pleasant than pressing. Nothing feels urgent here, in their private retreat. There’s something almost dreamy about it, about the peace and comfort that seem to emanate from the very walls.

“Being lazy is the whole point of a vacation, sweetheart,” Grant says. He pauses to kiss the tip of her nose as he draws back, and it makes her giggle. “You’re not very good at this whole relaxing thing, are you?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, twisting to look at him more easily. “Who was it that spent an  _hour_  cleaning a truly ridiculous number of weapons this morning?”

“Weapon maintenance  _is_  relaxing,” he claims. “Just because it’s also important d—”

His earnest expression is too much for her. She shifts to straddle him, curling her hands over his shoulders for leverage as she settles in his lap, and kisses him.

He goes along with it happily, sliding his hands up her sides and tugging her closer until there’s no room at all between them. She has one foot flat on the floor and her other tucked up under her, her knee pressing painfully into the corner of the couch, and with the fire roaring in the grate the warmth of his hands as they slip under her shirt is almost uncomfortable—

But it’s still perfect.

This kiss is heated, all passion and need, and the want low in her belly sharpens into something desperate as Grant nips at her bottom lip.

Then a random thought flits across her mind, and she breaks the kiss, giggling.

“Well that’s not what I was going for,” Grant says, but his face is more amused than annoyed as he leans back against the arm of the couch. “Something funny?”

She makes an attempt at a serious expression, though she doesn’t quite manage to keep her lips from twitching as she says, “I’ll maintain  _your_  weap—”

She squeaks, interrupting her own words, as she finds herself abruptly rolled underneath him.

“That was  _terrible_ ,” he says, kissing his way down her neck, and all thoughts of ridiculous innuendo—of anything at all beyond the press of his lips and the scrape of his stubble against her skin—abandon her. “Apologize, right now.”

She tangles her fingers in his hair as he tugs down the collar of her shirt—his shirt, really, which she stole after their shower this morning—to suck a bruise into her collarbone.

“Make me,” she challenges, and then shivers at the way he smiles against her skin.

“With pleasure.”


	50. "You cannot possibly blame that on me!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Ward x Simmons + “You cannot possibly blame that on me! I was in Russia!”"

After a very awkward introduction and an even more uncomfortable explanation as to why she’s here, Jemma retreats to the kitchen on Grant’s plane (which, she has been informed, is affectionately nicknamed  _the Bus_ ). It’s well-stocked, if poorly organized, and she gets to work assembling ingredients at once.

Grant follows her but, well acquainted with her habit of stress cooking, says nothing. He merely rests his hip against a nearby counter, close enough to offer support (whether emotional or otherwise) if necessary but far enough not to get in her way, and watches her steadily.

It’s a comfort. She’s not up to arguing, not right now, nor to trying to calm an outburst. Which she’s certain is the only reason he hasn’t had one. There’ll be no end of discussion about this later, of course—she imagines he has plenty to say.

And that’s fine, so long as he and his team rescue Fitz before he says it.

She’s barely finished gathering the necessary ingredients for a proper stew when the team hacker/consultant, Skye, enters the kitchen. She hops up onto the far counter and crosses her legs, staring at Jemma with blatant curiosity.

“So,” she says. “Married, huh?”

As Skye’s reaction to Jemma’s introduction as Grant’s wife was a startled  _wait, you were serious about being married?_ , her interest doesn’t come as a surprise.

“Yes,” Jemma confirms as she searches for a cutting board. “For nearly five years now.”

“That must be interesting,” Skye says. “How did you meet?  _When_  did you meet? Did SHIELD make you get married? You can tell me if SHIELD made you get married. I have friends, we can totally hide you.”

“Skye,” Grant says, tiredly, as Jemma is laughing too hard to speak. “Don’t harass my wife.”

“I’m not harassing her!” she defends. “I’m just trying to get to  _know_  her! She’s married to you; that makes her, like, my SO-in-law. We should get along!”

Jemma laughs harder, at that. SO-in-law!

She likes it.

“Oh, Grant,” she says, leaning back against the counter. “You never told me she was adorable!”

“She’s not,” Grant says flatly, though there’s a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Trust me.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Skye tells Jemma. “He totally thinks I’m adorable.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay, but seriously,” she says, ignoring Grant. “What’s it like? I mean, I’ve been on a team with Ward for three months now and he’s barely mentioned you and never taken a day off to visit or anything, so is it like—a part-time marriage?” She leans forward. “Are SHIELD wives a thing like Army wives are a thing?”

Grant is rubbing at his eyebrow the way he does when he’s annoyed, but Jemma is, honestly, amused. Skye seems so genuinely puzzled by the whole prospect—it’s very cute.

“It can be difficult, sometimes,” she admits. “Although, this team assignment has actually been very nice—we’ve been able to make near-daily contact. When he’s undercover I’m lucky to get an email every three weeks; since he joined this team, we’ve had nightly phone calls.”

“Aww,” Skye coos, as Grant gives Jemma a look of wounded betrayal. She blows him a kiss and returns her attention to the counter space; it’s an awful mess, and she’s going to need to clean it a bit before she can actually work on it. “But, so it’s like a long-distance relationship? You don’t get to visit very often?”

“That’s right,” she confirms.

“I’m sorry,” Skye says, dropping her joking tone. “That must be hard, him being gone all the time.”

“Some days are harder than others,” she acknowledges, sparing a smile in appreciation of Skye’s sympathy. “But for the most part, we survive. Of course…” She aims a scowl at Grant, who’s already rolling his eyes; he knows full well what she’s about to say. “Then there are things that are unforgivable.”

“Really?” he asks, despairing. “This again?”

“ _This again_ , he says,” she says to Skye. “Do you hear him? Some things, darling, should  _not_  be missed.”

“I said I was sorry,” he defends.

“ _I said I was sorry_ ,” she mocks (admittedly childishly). “Do you think  _sorry_  makes up for missing the birth of your only son?”

“You cannot  _possibly_  blame that on me,” he says. “I was in Russia!”

“And what were you doing in Russia, hm?” she asks, frowning. “I was  _nine months pregnant_ ; you shouldn’t have been anywhere but at home with me—”

“I was  _captured by insurgents_ , Jemma, there wasn’t a lot I could do about—”

“Well, you should’ve told them you had a pregnant wife at home—”

“That would’ve made it  _worse_ , not  _better_ —”

“Whoa!” Skye all but shouts, making a sharp time-out motion. “Hold up! Stop with the arguing!”

It’s really more banter than argument, the exchange familiar and worn like an old jumper—something they fall back on when they’re in the mood to bicker but not actually angry. Even when it actually happened, when Jemma gave birth with no one but Fitz to hold her hand, she was more terrified than upset—and when Grant came home two weeks later, of course she wasn’t blaming him; she was too relieved that he came home at all.

She’s about to tell Skye this—or, well, not all of it, simply that they’re not arguing in earnest—when she realizes that rather than looking uncomfortable, Skye is gaping at Grant.

“You have a  _kid_?” she demands. Her eyes swing to Jemma. “Like, seriously? Ward’s a  _father_?”

“Grant,” Jemma says, frowning at him. “You’ve never told her?”

She’s honestly shocked. She knows that Grant is a private person—he’s never going to be the man showing photos of his son to anyone who stands still long enough—but there’s a difference between being reserved and keeping the best thing in his life a secret from his team.

“It’s none of her business,” he says, a little weakly.

“Okay, that’s actually hurtful,” Skye says, and despite her playful tone, she does look a touch wounded.

“Look, I wasn’t…” He runs a hand through his hair, aggravated. “I wasn’t trying to—okay, at first I just didn’t trust you. Then I had  _reason_  not to trust you.”

Jemma has no idea what he’s talking about, but Skye winces under his raised eyebrow, so presumably she does.

“Okay, point,” she says. “But still, Ward!  _Three months_!”

“You’re right,” he says. “I should’ve said something.” He glances at Jemma, searching for help, and when she merely frowns at him—because  _really_!—he sighs and attempts to smile at Skye. “What do you want to know?”

Skye simply looks at him.

“Come on,” he says, spreading his arms. “Hit me. I’ll answer all your questions.”

“Okay, awesome,” Skye says, abandoning her pout in favor of smiling eagerly. “Tell me everything! What’s his name? How old is he? Where is he right now? Do you have pictures?”

“His name is Johnny, he’s three, he’s with my SO—usually he’d be either with Jemma or in the Sandbox’s daycare center, but considering the threat against her we’re taking precautions—and yes, I have a picture.”

Skye raises her eyebrows at him expectantly, and he sighs again.

“It’s in my bunk,” he adds. “I don’t keep it with me when I’m in the field—too risky.”

Skye frowns. “Uh, how?”

“You tell me,” he invites, crossing his arms, and she rolls her eyes.

“Really? We’re making this a teaching moment?” Under Grant’s unamused stare, she sighs and kicks her feet against the cabinets. “Okay, okay. Well, there’s probably a pretty good chance it’d get destroyed, but I’m guessing that’s not what you meant. Um…I guess, if you get captured and the bad guys look through your wallet, they’ll know you have a kid and that’s leverage?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Grant asks.

Jemma smiles to herself as she finishes cleaning off the counter. He sounds like such a  _teacher_ —albeit a very grumpy one—and it’s endearing. She knew he’d be good at this; he’s very well suited to train rookies, and she lives in hope that someday he might retire from the field and take it up full-time.

“Answer?” Skye guesses, and then nods. “Yes. Answer.”

“Not bad,” he says, with a slight smile. “That’s a major part of it.”

“Okay, great, teaching moment over,” Skye says. “Can I see the picture now?”

“Here,” Jemma says. She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, pulls her mobile out of her pocket, and hands it over. Her lock screen is, naturally, a picture of Johnny, and Skye melts as soon as she lays eyes on it.

“Oh my God,” she says, “He is  _so cute_! Look at those little  _cheekbones_!” She hugs the phone to her chest and gives Jemma a wide-eyed look. “Can I meet him? Please?”

“Of course you may!” Jemma accepts the phone back and slips it into her pocket after taking a quick glance of her own. The picture—Johnny in the Sandbox’s play area, beaming into the camera with his face smeared with mud—makes her heart twist. She knows he’s safe with John, of course—John dotes on her son, who is his godson and namesake both—but she does hate to be separated from him during a time like this. “As soon as…all of this is over, I’ll be glad to introduce you.”

“Awesome!” Skye jumps down off the counter and punches the air. “I am going to be the most  _amazing_ cool aunt, just you watch.”

Grant straightens. “No, wait—”

“No take-backs!” Skye exclaims, and darts out of the kitchen.

“We’re gonna regret that,” Grant predicts, slumping back against the counter.

Jemma wants to continue the banter, to add some sort of teasing comment, but she can’t. Her eyes are, absurdly, welling with tears. She doesn’t know why, but the talk of Johnny has worn away her hard-earned calm, and suddenly all of her fear and panic for Fitz hits her at once.

“Jemma?” Grant asks, brow creasing in genuine worry—a distinct contrast to the playful concern he was displaying mere seconds ago.

She abandons her half-assembled stew and crosses the tiny kitchen to join him, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her weight against him. He hugs her close, dipping his head to press a kiss to her hair.

“He’s going to be all right,” she asks more than says. “Isn’t he?”

“We’re gonna do everything we can, baby,” he promises, kissing her hair again. He rubs a hand across her back as she hides her face in his shoulder. “We’re already on their trail, you know that. Just a few hours and we’ll have them pinned.”

“What if he’s already—already—”

She can’t even voice the words. It’s a very real fear; the people who took Fitz have no use for an engineer, only a biochemist. They might well cross him off if they believe him useless as leverage.

“Shh.” Grant rests his chin atop her head and squeezes her tightly. “He’s not.”

There’s no way he can know that for certain and, therefore, no logical reason that she should be comforted. And yet, undeniably, she is. Whether because she wants so badly to believe the words or simply because it’s Grant speaking them, they ease some of the awful ache in her chest.

“I’ll get him back for you,” Grant promises, and logical or not, Jemma believes him.


	51. Non-verbal "Don't fucking touch me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Don’t fucking touch me."

Grant falls asleep in his bed—in his very secure bedroom, in his very secure penthouse, in his very secure base of operations.

This makes waking up strapped to a hospital bed even more concerning than it would be on its own.

He’s been trained not to react when waking up in this kind of situation, to feign unconsciousness while he assesses the situation, but his eyes open before his mind catches up with things, and it’s impossible not to react to the stabbing pain the bright fluorescent lights spark in his skull.

His eyes water as he squeezes them shut, and by the time the pain fades enough for him to risk opening them again, he can sense someone’s presence.

“Doctor,” a voice—familiar, but only very vaguely—calls. “This one’s awake!”

There’s shock and fascination in her tone, and it prompts him to open his eyes. The face is as vaguely familiar as the voice, and it takes him a second to place her. She’s young—he remembers a dimly lit room—club?—lots of noise, a tiny con—quick and easy, so halfhearted it doesn’t even really deserve the name—and she folded in seconds…

Hannigan. Callie Hannigan, from the SciTech Academy.

What the hell?

She’s leaning over him, close enough to strangle, and there’s a pen in the front pocket of her lab coat that’ll make a decent weapon. He’s restrained, sure, but they’re just simple leather straps, the kind he’s escaped dozens, if not hundreds, of times. He’ll be out in less than a second.

Except he’s not.

He can’t get his hands to move the way he needs them to. He can barely even twitch. And that’s nothing to do with the restraints and everything to do with how  _weak_  he feels. He tries to lift his head and can’t manage it—it feels like it weighs at least four hundred pounds, like there’s an anvil on his forehead holding him down.

He didn’t feel this weak after being  _shot_  four times. What the fuck is going on?

“Awake, you say?” This voice is a hell of a lot more familiar—and a hell of a lot more worrying. “Are you certain?”

“He’s looking right at me,” Hannigan says. “I think he’s angry.”

Fuck yeah, he’s angry, and just as soon as he fights off whatever they gave him—and he must be drugged, it’s the only explanation—he’s going to snap Hannigan’s neck. As for Simmons, who appears next to Hannigan a second later? She’ll be  _begging_  for death by the time he’s done with her.

“He  _is_  awake,” Simmons says. “Interesting.” She looks back the way she came, far out of Grant’s limited field of vision, and orders, “Check the dosage on Patient 317.”

Patient 317, really? She doesn’t even have the decency to use his  _name_  while she’s—what, experimenting on him?

She is going to regret this  _so hard_.

“Standard, Doctor,” a male voice reports a moment later.

“Hmm.” She frowns down at him. “Cortistatin levels?”

“Within normal parameters,” the same voice says. “Epinephrine is through the roof, though.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“Simmons,” Grant tries to say, but it ends in a coughing fit. His throat is in screaming agony by the time he’s done, which is fucking bizarre; talking didn’t hurt that much with a  _fractured larynx_. What the hell has she done to him?

Simmons’ eyes are wide as she looks to Hannigan. “Did he—?”

“He called you Simmons,” Hannigan confirms, her own eyes wide.

“He remembers the simulation,” Simmons says, and notes something down on the clipboard she’s holding. “Fascinating!” Her face is full of the kind of glee he hasn’t seen from her in years—since their first days on the Bus, before the Chitauri virus and the berserker staff and Centipede drained the wonder out of her and replaced it with fear. “Prepare an MRI at once. I want a full blood panel and…”

“Doctor?” Hannigan prompts.

“None of the others have woken,” Simmons muses, as Grant makes another unsuccessful attempt to slip his restraints. “We don’t have a control variable.”

The pain in his throat—and his head—is fading. His vision is starting to grey along the edges.

He’s losing consciousness.

He tries to cling to it, keep himself awake by planning everything he’s gonna do to Simmons to make her sorry for this, but it doesn’t do much to help.

“Which simulation was he in?” Simmons asks. Her fingers are tapping against his arm, and his skin must be beyond oversensitive from whatever she’s given him, because the light, barely present contact sends heat right down his spine.

He tries to communicate the sentiment  _don’t fucking touch me_  with his eyes alone, but she’s not looking at him.

Hannigan glances to the right. “99-7B.”

“Let’s try a new one, shall we?” Simmons says brightly. “It will be interesting to see whether he retains memory of this—or perhaps even the other simulation! Do note the time; if he wakes again, I want to know precisely how long it takes.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Hannigan says, and moves out of his sight.

His eyelids are even heavier than his head. He can’t keep them open any longer. He makes one last, desperate try at breaking his restraints, but this time he can’t even move his fingers.

“Do you have a preference for which simulation?” Hannigan asks.

“Oh, let’s try 99-5D,” Simmons says. “Just for fun.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Don’t worry, 317,” Simmons murmurs. She’s a lot closer now—leaning over him? “Everything will be all right in just a moment.”

The last thing he knows is the brush of her fingers against his jaw, and then—nothing.


	52. Rewards (Rumlow/Jemma/Ward)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A present for safelycapricious' half-birthday!

Jemma is ready to swear by the time they reach the apartment.

He knows it, and he doesn’t bother with foreplay—or, rather, he finally  _ends_  the foreplay, as this entire bloody day has been one long, drawn-out session of it. His hand on her leg through all the briefings, fingers dragging up and down her inner thigh, always so  _close_  but still so far, drawing little patterns on the inside of her knee that she would’ve sworn he was drawing directly on her clit for how wet they made her.

Of all the days for her to wear a skirt. She’s not sure whether she’s unspeakably grateful or utterly regretful; he’s driven her more than half-mad with lust, and she’s doing well, she thinks, to even remember her name.

The point is, as soon as the door closes behind them, he’s got her against it, shoving her skirt up and her panties aside to  _finally_  touch her, slipping two fingers inside of her even as he grins against her mouth at finding her so wet for him.

She can’t say anything about it—can’t even  _try_  to knock him down a peg—can only clutch his shoulders and whimper as he drives her over the edge in very short order.

She’s still seeing stars when a chuckle sounds from further inside the apartment.

“You feeling okay, Brock?” Grant asks. She manages to make her eyes focus long enough to realize he’s leaning against the back of the couch, watching them with crossed arms; then Brock’s fingers shift inside her, sending sparks along her nerves, and her eyes slip closed. “You didn’t even make her beg first.”

Brock laughs against Jemma’s skin, kissing the mark she didn’t even realize until this moment that he was sucking into her neck.

“Our girl was good today,” he says. Her breath catches on a whine as he slips his fingers out of her. “She deserved a reward.”

The aftershocks are still fading, but Jemma’s not feeling enough pleasure not to be annoyed by the words.

“Don’t speak about me like I’m not here,” she orders, shoving him away.

There’s no way she could move him if he didn’t want to be moved, of course, but Brock steps back with a smirk. She busies herself with straightening her skirt for a moment and then, once she’s certain her legs will support her, pushes away from the door.

“You don’t agree?” he asks.

“Oh, I was excellent today,” she says, passing him. “But if  _that’s_  what you call a reward…” She smiles over her shoulder at him, mocking. “Perhaps I’ll look elsewhere for the rest of my celebration.”

Brock grabs for her; Jemma dodges and takes to her heels. She barely makes it four steps, however, before Grant catches her up in his arms, lifting her easily off her feet.

“I’ll be glad to celebrate with you,” he says, and kisses her.

It’s a heated kiss, the type that makes promises she knows he can keep, and if she weren’t already desperately aroused, this would push her into that territory.

As it is, she  _is_  desperately aroused, and she’s feeling a touch impatient over the relatively chaste placement of his hands.

“Assuming,” he adds, a touch breathlessly, as he breaks the kiss. “That the need for punishment doesn’t outweigh the reason for celebration.”

She barely has time to process the implications of that statement before Brock is snatching her out of Grant’s arms.

“Look elsewhere, will you?” he asks, and Jemma can only laugh helplessly as he slings her over his shoulder. “I’ll show  _you_  a reward.” He pinches the back of her thigh in exactly the right place to send a jolt of electricity straight to her core. “But only after I make you pay for that.”

“Sounds fair,” Grant muses. “Doesn’t that sound fair, baby?”

“I think it sounds like more talk,” she says, pointedly. It’s difficult to sound dignified in this position, but she does her best. “Which is all I’ve got so far tonight.”

“Well, then,” Brock says. “We should fix that.”

Grant smiles slowly. “We should.”

Her position, undignified as it is, allows her to see the heat in his eyes as he follows them towards the bedroom, and, paired with Brock’s almost too-tight grip on her, it makes her shiver.

It’s going to be a long and, she’s certain,  _extremely_  rewarding night.


	53. Five sentence part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accepted a whole bunch of five-sentence fic prompts--the kind where the prompter provides the first sentence and I write...at least five more. Usually it was a lot more than five, tbh--on my tumblr, and I will be posting them in chunks because there were a lot. So here's part one!

ilosttrackofthings asked: "I might not have meant it when I said I loved you."

Grant laughs, delighted, and leans against the wall next to her. “You did. You’re not that good of a liar, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I am,” Jemma says. She looks down; her hair swings forward to hide her face. “Maybe I’ve fooled you like I’ve fooled everyone.”

“The only person you’re fooling is yourself,” he says, and the affection in his tone softens words that might have been harsh into something fond as he slides his hand over her back. “You love me and we both know it. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

She sighs, resigned, and presses the button. Behind them, the pod detaches from its bearings, sliding out of the Bus and into the ocean below.

It only takes seconds. Fitz and Skye’s screaming echoes in her ears for much, much longer.

 

Anonymous asked: (Five sentence meme) "Sorry, I have to go rescue my brother from a crack den."

Lincoln stares. “I’m sorry?”

And this date was going so well. Still, of all the excuses he’s gotten over the years (one of these days he’s gonna manage to keep a lid on the awkward, dorky side of his personality for more than an hour at a time; he’s resolved), that’s definitely the most interesting.

“I’m not giving you a line, I promise,” Jemma says, giving him an earnest smile. “Tonight has been lovely; I hope we can do it again sometime. But right now I have to go save Lance before he gets arrested again.”

“What…” He really doesn’t even know where to start with this, if she’s not just awkwardly excusing herself. “I thought your brother was in the Army.” She definitely told him that like twenty minutes ago.

“He is! It’s just…” she grimaces. “It’s the anniversary of his divorce, and he always pulls ridiculous stunts trying to gain his ex-wife’s attention. If I don’t stop him now, he’ll fight every person of even mildly ill intent in the city.”

Well, if it’s not a line… “Sounds like the kind of situation where a doctor might come in handy. Mind if I tag along?”

“If my mad brother won’t scare you off,” Jemma beams, “I’d love that.”

 

Anonymous asked: "Who do you think is hotter, Trip or Grant?"

“Grant.”

“Mike or Grant?”

“Grant.”

“Fitz or Grant?”

“Grant.”

“…Bakshi or Grant?”

“Grant.”

“Yep. She’s broken.” Skye sighs and passes ten dollars to a very smug Grant. “You brainwashed her, didn’t you?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” Grant says, and drops a kiss on Jemma’s cheek. “I’d call it good taste.”

“And what would you call it?” Skye asks Jemma as Grant leaves. “Because seriously, if it’s brainwashing, we can get you help for that.”

Jemma rests her chin in her hands, watching him go. “I’d call it that thing he does with his tongue.”

 

ilosttrackofthings asked: “Do we hate him?”

“Nah,” Skye says, but accepts a piece of the chocolate Jemma offers nonetheless. “We weren’t even really dating, honestly. Just kind of…gazing. And flirting. And having weirdly sexual power-showing moments. But honestly I think that’s just an Inhuman thing.”

“Oh,” Jemma says. “That’s good!” She’s glad–she does hate to see Skye upset–but also a little confused. “But then…why did you ask for a girl’s night?”

“Right. About that.” Skye pins her with a (frankly worryingly) intent look. “How do you feel about hooking up with my exes?”

Jemma determinedly does  _not_  think about a closet in an Arctic base nor anything that certainly did not happen there. “I would never!”

“Right, but Lincoln doesn’t really count as an ex, right? Because I say he doesn’t. So he’s totally fair game.”

“Wait,” she says, mind still…somewhere  _other_  than the arctic. “Are you saying…?”

“That you should  _totally_  hook up with Lincoln and have sweet, adorable, rot-everyone’s-teeth-out love? Yes, yes I am.”

 

Anonymous asked: "I'm not sure I believe in marriage."

“Skye–”

“ _I’m not sure I believe in marriage_?” Skye repeats, tone incredulous rather than mocking this time. “Who does he think he  _is_? It’s a legal thing, not the freaking  _tooth fairy_! How can you  _not believe_  in marriage?”

Jemma sighs. “He wasn’t saying he doesn’t believe it  _exists_ , he was saying–”

“He was saying that he doesn’t wanna marry you, but he’s too much of a  _coward_  to just outright say so, so he’s gotta dance around it like a  _pathetic moron_!”

Jemma is…fairly certain this conversation isn’t about her and her terrible first date at all.

“Skye?” she asks. “Is there something I need to know about you and Trip?”

Skye groans and collapses on the couch next to her, slumping over to hide her face in Jemma’s shoulder.

“He proposed,” she says mournfully. “And I panicked.”

Jemma sighs and pats her thigh. “Oh, Skye. Trip’s a very sweet and understanding man, I’m sure he won’t hold it against you.”

“I’ve been dodging his calls,” Skye admits. “I just–I keep trying to fix it and then I  _panic more_. It’s the worst, Jemma.  _I_  am the worst.”

This is completely fixable, but that’s clearly not something Skye wants to hear right now. Jemma sighs again.

“I made cake,” she says. “Let’s go have a slice, shall we?”

 

Anonymous asked: "I knew she wasn't a good person, but I always thought you were exaggerating."

“As you can see,” Jemma says placidly, gesturing to the monitor, “I wasn’t.”

“Yeah.” Skye winces as, on screen, Coulson barely gets behind cover in time to avoid a bullet to the head. “So. My mom’s crazy and wants to wipe out humanity, and your mom…?”

“Also crazy, also wants to wipe out humanity,” Jemma confirms. “And, unlike your mother, she hides behind a ridiculous name to do it.”

“So she’s like a legit supervillain,” Skye marvels. “What’s her evil name?”

Jemma sighs. “Madame Hydra.”


	54. Five sentence part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accepted a whole bunch of five-sentence fic prompts--the kind where the prompter provides the first sentence and I write...at least five more. Usually it was a lot more than five, tbh--on my tumblr, and I will be posting them in chunks because there were a lot. So here's part two!

Anonymous asked: She shouldn't find him so attractive when he was splattered with blood.

“I’m a terrible person,” Jemma said mournfully. 

Grant grinned and wrapped his hands around her waist, tugging her closer. “Yeah? And why’s that, baby?”

His hands were definitely staining her dress, but she didn’t say anything about it. She didn’t shove him away, either, even though she knew she should. All she did was cup his face in her hands and get on her toes to kiss him.

“Because,” she said, breathlessly, when he finally allowed her to pull away long enough to breathe. “The only thing on my mind right now is taking you back to our room.”

“With all this science on display?” he asked, glancing around the lab. His eyes moved over her dead colleagues like they weren’t even there. “That  _is_  a compliment.” He grinned. “And I think I’ll take you up on it.”

 

sapphireglyphs asked: "Jinx!"

Grant doesn’t bother to pretend the hit to his shoulder hurts at all. “What?”

“It’s a jinx,” Skye says, hitting him again. “You freaking  _jinxed_  us, you psycho! ‘Oh, it’ll be easy, we’ll be in and out in  _three minutes_!’ That was you! You said that! And now look–at–us!”

She ends her little rant with another three thumps to his shoulder, and he sighs. He doesn’t know what’s more annoying: that he’s trapped in a hostage situation, that he’s trapped in a hostage situation with  _Skye_ , or that the terms of his probation with SHIELD mean he can’t get them out of it.

“Calm down,” he says, catching her hand before she can hit him again. She’s already hit him eleven times today, which means she’s one over her limit and he’s therefore technically free to retaliate. But just because he’s  _allowed_  to doesn’t mean it’ll go over well at the Playground if he brings her back dented, so he just holds her in place as she scowls at him. “You hit your panic button, right? I’m sure a strike team will descend on us any second, ready to toss me back in the Vault, and once they figure out that I’m not the bad guy–”

“ _This_  time,” she cuts in snarkily.

He ignores her. “–they’ll take out the robbers, no problem.”

On his other side, Jemma sighs and hugs her knees to her chest, glaring at the bank robber passing them on his twenty-third circuit of the lobby.

“This is absurd,” she says. “You can’t expect us to believe these men would be any sort of challenge for you.”

“Nope,” he agrees. “But the terms of my probation–”

“Bugger the terms,” she hisses, aiming her glare at him. Her  fingers flex around her calf like she’s thinking of punching him, too, but she’s already declared, loudly, that she won’t be using  _any_  of her allotted hits. Apparently he, quote, enjoys it too much, coming from her.

Which, fair.

“There’s an allowance for violence in defense of yourself and others,” she adds, frowning at him. Her ponytail is unraveling, leaving loose locks of hair hanging in her eyes, and his fingers itch with the urge to touch her–to brush her hair aside, weave his fingers in it, and kiss that look off of her face.

But by his calculations, she’s still a good three months away from allowing physical contact again, so he keeps his hands to himself. 

(It would’ve been one, but that thing with the sex pollen a couple weeks ago left her jumpy. He’s trying not to being too visibly smug.)

“But that’s only in cases of clear and present threat,” he tells her. “And these guys haven’t hurt anyone yet. So there’s nothing I can do.”

“When have you  _ever_  had a problem breaking the rules?” Skye demands. “You’re a  _criminal_!”

“I’m reformed,” he says virtuously, and she actually, hilariously, growls at him.

“Ward,” Jemma says. He pouts at her, and she rolls her eyes. “ _Grant_. Would you  _please_  just do something?”

“I’m not gonna let Coulson kick me off the team on a technicality,” he says. “Sorry.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” she promises. “And so will Skye, won’t you?”

“Ugh, yes, fine,” Skye says. “Just take them out already!”

He’s tempted to draw it out further, really underline that he’s acting under protest, but these bank robbers are so incompetent that it’s actually, physically paining him to watch them, and he just can’t stand it anymore.

“Oh, fine,” he says. “But I want you to remember that  _you_  were the ones who insisted.”

 

Anonymous asked: This was going to blow all of his plans to hell.

But it would take a stronger man than Grant to withstand the way Simmons was looking at him.

She had looked at him a lot of ways over the course of their acquaintance–with friendship, with admiration, with desire and gratitude and concern–and he had thought, at one point, that nothing could be worse than the hate and betrayal he saw when he caught her in Cuba.

And then he saw the empty smile she gave him once she was compliant, and he knew he was wrong.

So he turned traitor (again). He complimented Whitehall’s work, asked to borrow her–slipped in a leer, let his hand linger on her shoulder, allowed his tone to ask the question he couldn’t bring himself to actually voice, even insincerely–and, once given Whitehall’s unconcerned blessing, he got her the hell out of HYDRA.

Then he dropped her on the Playground’s doorstep and disappeared into the wind, because like hell was he going to try and explain to SHIELD what he didn’t know himself–namely, what the hell he was thinking.

 

Anonymous asked: "You need to kill me, Grant."

Grant sighs. “I’m not gonna kill you, Simmons.”

“No, really,” she insists. “I understand and appreciate your hesitation, but it’s really the best option for everyo…” She trails off into a whine, her hand clamping around his, and it’s a few seconds before she can speak again. “For everyone. I’m going to die anyway, you might as well spare me the pain.”

“You’re not gonna die,” he says. Sweat is making her hair stick to her forehead, and the way it’s right at the corners of her eyes must be irritating; he brushes it away gently with his free hand, then lets his fingers rest on her cheek when she leans into the touch. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I promise you’ll be fine.”

“H-how would you know?” she asks, voice catching on a sharp inhale. Her hold on his hand is impressively tight; it’s actually kind of painful.

“Because you told me, remember?” he asks. “Before they injected you. You gave me a full chemical breakdown of whatever the hell that drug was.” He aims for a teasing tone as he adds, “I can try and repeat it, but fair warning, I’m gonna mess up every word longer than two syllables.”

“I was wrong,” she says. “I was completely wrong, I must be dy–”

This time, she actually screams, and as he wraps an arm around her to keep her from throwing herself off of his lap as she spasms, he adds another hour to his count, bringing it up to twenty-seven. How he’s gonna pull off getting left alone with their captors for more than a full day, he’s not sure yet, but he’ll think of something.

Her scream ends in a sob, and as she cries against his shoulder, he recites his mental list. Thirteen hours (so far) for the pain she’s in. Three for kidnapping them in the first place. Five for the psychological torture that came first, putting her in a makeshift lab and letting her–forcing her to–analyze the drug before they gave it to her. Four for the way the asshole with the tattoo groped her while he was untying her. Two for his broken ribs.

He owes their captors twenty-seven hours of pain before he kills them. At this point, he doesn’t even care if it screws his cover. 

They deserve it.

 

Anonymous asked: "Why are you so curious about my sex life?"

“Because that girl was  _super hot_  and you didn’t even look at her before turning her down!” Skye says, waving one arm wildly in the direction said super hot girl walked after being rejected. “Just like you didn’t even look at the super hot  _guy_  that hit on you! You’ve been hit on fifteen times in the last  _hour_ and you haven’t accepted a single offer! I’m starting to think that you’re  _actually_  a robot!”

Grant sighs. Skye’s tenacity only increases with every drink she has; if he doesn’t answer, she’ll probably be clinging to his leg ( _again_ ) and threatening to hack his SHIELD file to see if it lists a serial number by the end of the night.

He’s kind of been saving this revelation for a bad day–because he knows her face is gonna be hilarious–but he guesses this will have to do.

“I’m not a robot,” he says, motioning the bartender for another drink. “Just married.”

Her face is just as great as he thought it would be.

 

darkangelcryo asked: "You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline."

“I have discipline! I have  _lots_  of discipline!” Skye defends, and elbows Grant in the side. “Ward, tell the creepy spirit possessing Simmons that I have discipline.”

“Haven’t we already established that she can tell when we’re lying?” he asks, and Skye gasps, offended.

“I tire of your squabbling,” the ‘creepy spirit’ intones.

Grant rolls his eyes. She keeps  _saying_  stuff like that, and it’s really starting to piss him off. He’d like to shut her up, but as annoying as the spirit is, it’s wearing Simmons’ body, and he’s weirdly reluctant to hurt her.

It’s just practicality, really. Possessed or not, there’s no way anyone on the team would look kindly on him so much as bruising Simmons. She’s so…tiny and happy and stuff. They’ll take it personally.

“Then  _leave_  already,” Skye suggests. “Give us Simmons back and go back to whichever dark pit you came from, okay?”

“You know the way to stop me,” the spirit repeats, and Skye groans.

 

Anonymous asked: "This is exactly what it looks like."

“It’s really not,” Grant disagrees, stepping away from Simmons with a grimace.

“Really.” May looks between them stoically.

“Well it  _should_  be,” Simmons says. With the way her ponytail has been all but destroyed, her hair is hanging in her face; she tries to blow it out of the way, then pouts as it just falls back into the same position. “What does a girl need to  _do_  to get some orgasms around here? I mean  _really_.”

May turns to Grant.

“She’s got some kind of…lust thing going on,” he says. With his training, it’s easy to pretend he’s not the slightest bit embarrassed as he buckles his belt. She managed to get pretty far in undressing him before he managed to subdue her, hampered as he was by a) the need to not hurt her and b) his raging hard on, which delayed him in realizing something was wrong. “Basically jumped me. Restraining her was the only way to stop her.”

“I had such high hopes when you handcuffed me,” Simmons says mournfully. “And then  _nothing_.” She scowls as he walks away to retrieve his shirt from where it landed near the briefing room. “I _know_  you’re attracted to me, Ward; don’t think I didn’t notice your reaction to seeing me in a towel.”

“I didn’t react,” he defends–mostly to May, who’s giving him an incredibly judgmental eyebrow.

“Your eyes lingered,” Simmons says, making a futile attempt to squirm off the couch. “I saw them.”

Okay, maybe they lingered a  _little_ , but he was riding an adrenaline rush from jumping out of the Bus to save her life, and it was a really little towel. Who could blame him?

In any case, there’s really no good place for this conversation to go.

“Regardless of whether or not I’m attracted to you,” he says, pulling his shirt on, “You’re clearly under the influence of  _something_. And nothing’s happening when you’re not in your right mind.”

Simmons makes a noise of frustration that’s half growl, half whine. May sighs.

“I’ll go check on Skye,” she says. “You alert Coulson.”

Probably a good idea; Simmons and Skye went out together earlier, and if Simmons was exposed to whatever this is  _then_ …

Extremely grateful that if he had to be jumped by  _someone_ , it was Simmons and not Skye, he nods.

“On it.”

 

safelycapricious asked: Wow. He was really, really, really tall.

“I object,” Jemma said.

Mack blinked, sending an uncertain look to Agent Morse, who shrugged. “Uh…to what?”

“To  _you_ ,” she clarified. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re perfectly lovely–and I see you’re friends with Agent Morse, which certainly speaks well of you–but you’re simply far too tall.”

There was a long moment of confused silence.

“Bobbi,” Agent Morse said, finally. “Remember?”

“Yes, right,” Jemma said, and smiled apologetically. “That will take some getting used to, I think.”

“Wait, can we back up a bit?” Mack asked. “Too tall for  _what_?”

“For the team,” she said. “Look at you, you’re even taller than Ward (that bastard), and with Agent–with _Bobbi_  as a member of the team as well, you’ll skew our average height terribly. It simply can’t be allowed.” She nodded once, resolved. “So I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to insist that you leave.”

“O….kay.”

No one was properly appreciative of Jemma’s very valid concerns, and she was directed to  _get some sleep_  and told that she would  _feel better in the morning_. Ha! 

Unless Mack happened to shrink overnight, she rather doubted it.


	55. Five sentence part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accepted a whole bunch of five-sentence fic prompts--the kind where the prompter provides the first sentence and I write...at least five more. Usually it was a lot more than five, tbh--on my tumblr, and I will be posting them in chunks because there were a lot. So here's part three!
> 
> This is the final part for now, but it's not _all_ of the five sentence fills. Several of them got out of control, and will be given their own chapters. Just fyi.

Anonymous asked: "The moment I'm off these crutches, you're dead."

“I’m quaking in my boots,” Grant says, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Really. Terrified.”

Hunter makes a strangling motion in his direction, then clumps his way over to the fridge to grab a beer. It’s a pretty pathetic sight, and Grant thinks about saying so. 

Then Jemma settles into his lap, and he forgets about Hunter.

“What have I told you about being nice?” she chides. It’s hard to take her tone seriously when she’s cuddling against him like this, but he’s not gonna be the one to tell her that. 

“Probably that I’m not a nice man and it’s ridiculous to try and pretend otherwise,” he says.

She sighs. “That is literally the complete opposite of what I said.”

“Oops,” he says, unashamed. They both know that he’s not gonna be nice to anyone but her, but they also both know that she’s not gonna give up trying to make him. “And hey, who says I wasn’t nice today?”

“You  _shoved me off a roof_ ,” Hunter hisses from the kitchen.

“And out of the path of a bullet,” Grant reminds him. “I could’ve just let you get shot.”

“’I could’ve just let you get shot,’” Hunter mocks, and scowls at Jemma. “I don’t know what you’re doing with this prat. He’s intolerable.”

Grant grins. He takes pride in how thoroughly he’s managed to aggravate all of Jemma’s team.

“Oh, he has his good points,” she tells Hunter. “You just need to get to know him, really.”

She really believes it, too. It’s kind of adorable.

“Yeah, Hunter,” Grant says. “You just need to get to know me.”

Hunter grabs another beer.

 

Anonymous asked: “The problem with being single is that I’m wasting the best years of my breasts.”

Grant will not be blamed for the fact that Simmons’ words prompt him to look at her breasts. Not only did she just mention them, she’s  _cupping_  them, for fuck’s sake. As she’s both shirtless and braless, it’s a pretty distracting sight.

There are times he regrets choosing  _May_ as the member of the team to pursue a sexual relationship with. This is definitely one of them.

“…Okay,” he says, reluctantly returning his eyes to Simmons’ face. “I’m…sorry to hear that?”

“You don’t sound sorry,” she notes, crossing her arms. It’s…not any less distracting than the cupping.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he says, “Which you should take as a compliment, because I’m hardly ever.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she agrees.

“I have no idea what’s going on right now,” he says. “At all.”

It’s not the kind of thing he’d usually admit to, because someone who knows you’re confused is someone who has the upper hand. But, seriously. Simmons, who nearly died the last time they spoke, has reacted to his presence at this base by appearing in his room in the middle of the night and taking all her clothes off.

Which…okay, it’s not that he’s got  _no_  idea what’s going on. It’s just his only idea doesn’t make much sense, all things considered.

“I hate you,” she says simply. “I hate you a  _lot_. However, I have it on very good authority–Helen says hello, by the way–that you’re an excellent lover. And I am in  _desperate_  need of an orgasm at hands other than my own.”

Huh. Maybe his only idea isn’t so far off, after all. (Also, if Helen is HYDRA, he might need to reconsider his allegiances again. The last thing he wants to risk is ending up in the same room as  _her_.)

“And you’re assuming I want to help you with that?” he asks. 

Simmons scoffs and gestures at her naked body. “Look at me! Who wouldn’t?”

He looks. It’s a fair point.

“Just to be clear,” he says, because this is the kind of situation where he wants _no_  misunderstandings. “You’re asking for sex?”

“Yes.” She tips her chin up. “Preferably the sort of sex that leaves plenty of evidence–bruises, scratches, that sort of thing. It will be good for my position.”

He has so many questions, but frankly he thinks this conversation has gone on long enough.

“Works for me,” he says, and kisses her.

The sex is beyond incredible, but the next day, when he finds himself challenged to an actual  _duel_  for Simmons’ honor, he does kind of wish he’d taken the time to get some more answers.

Still. Totally worth it.

 

Anonymous asked: "Did you know 50% of women think of someone other then their partner during sex?"

Jemma hides a smile as Grant’s hold on her thighs tightens severely. It’s only a moment before his hands gentle again, but it’s enough to tell her that she was correct: this is absolutely the correct tactic.

“Really?” he asks. “Should I be concerned that you’re bringing this up right now?” 

He sounds unaffected, but there’s a slight undertone to his words that she can’t decipher–much like the look on his face.

“Oh, no,” she assures him, doing her best to sound apologetic. “I didn’t mean–I just read it somewhere, that’s all, and it crossed my mind. You know I can never resist sharing facts.”

She leans down to kiss him, but the quick peck she intended becomes heated as he tangles a hand in her hair and holds her in place. He doesn’t let her pull away until her lungs are burning for air, and by that time the soft arousal she’s been feeling has sharpened into something desperate.

“Goodness, Grant,” she says, breathless, as she straightens. “What brought that on?”

She knows very well what brought it on–the jealousy she deliberately provoked, jealousy she’s long suspected has been lurking under his casual  façade–but there’s no need to make it  _obvious_  what she’s doing.

“If there’s anything crossing your mind right now,” he says, “I’m not doing my job right.”

With that, he rolls them, switching their positions and somehow managing to catch and pin her wrists at the same time. He’s a heavy weight on top of her, pressing her down into the mattress, and she beams at him happily.

“This is new,” she observes.

“Is it okay?” he asks.

It’s more than okay; she’s been trying for  _weeks_  to get him to stop acting like she’s made of spun glass, and if his grip on her wrists, trapped on either side of her head, is any indication, she’s finally succeeded.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “Very.”

“Good.” His fingers flex on her wrists, and the smile he gives her has enough of an edge to it to make her shiver delightfully. “Now. Let’s see about getting statistics–” He dips his head to nip at the sensitive spot beneath her jaw, sending a jolt straight down her spine. “Or anything else but me–out of your mind.”

Needless to say, he succeeds.

 

Anonymous asked: "We have a few questions for you before you have our blessing to date Jemma."

“O…kay,” Lincoln says slowly. “Can I ask a question of my own, first?”

Skye and Fitz exchange a quick look; Skye nods graciously. 

“Go ahead,” she invites.

“What exactly makes you think I’m interested in dating Simmons?” he asks. “I’ve barely said three words to her since she Indexed me–and thanks for that, by the way, Skye.”

“You’re welcome,” Skye says. “And are you kidding me?”

Fitz is giving him a weirdly disappointed frown. “I don’t think he’s kidding.”

“I’m not,” Lincoln confirms.

“Who  _wouldn’t_  want to date Jemma?” Fitz asks Skye.

“Absolutely nobody,” she says. “Even the  _enemy_  wants to date Jemma.”

From the dark tone–and Fitz’s accompanying scowl–Lincoln kind of gets the idea that there’s a story there. Luckily for him, it’s really not one he’s interested in hearing. (’Luckily’ because Skye’s got that _vibrate-everyone-into-a-migraine_  look she always wears when she’s in the mood to make everyone else as angry as she is.)

“Well, I don’t,” he says–and he doesn’t. Just because she’s not as bad as he first thought she was doesn’t mean he’s  _interested_.

“Okay,” Skye says, and plops into the seat next to him. Fitz takes his other side, and Lincoln gets the sinking feeling that this is nowhere near over. “So, we’ve got a different question for you.”

He takes a resigned bite of his cereal. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you want to date Jemma?” Fitz demands.

It’s gonna be a long morning.

 

safelycapricious asked: She was decently sure no one else was seeing what she was seeing.

Still, it never hurt to check.

“I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting the ongoing debate. “Is anyone else seeing tiny pygmy worms crawling all over the walls?”

Ward and his second looked at each other, then at the walls.

“Uh, no,” the second (Martin? Morrison? M-something, she was fairly certain) said.

“Just me, then,” Jemma said, and settled back in her chair. “I thought so. Carry on.”

She seemed to have distracted them from their argument, however, and Ward left the table and whatever it contained that was so fascinating to crouch in front of her chair.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” he asked. He kept calling her that; she wasn’t sure why. Still, she didn’t entirely hate it–she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called her anything but Simmons. 

“I think so,” she said. “Hallucinations are a common side effect of high dosages of zolpidem.” She frowned thoughtfully. “So is anterograde amnesia. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember his name.”

“Whose name?” Ward glanced over his shoulder. “His?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Markham,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about him.”

“Okay,” she agreed. 

“How you doing otherwise?” he asked, caressing her right wrist. “Ropes too tight?”

“No, they’re fine,” she said, frowning at said ropes. She hadn’t even noticed them. “Why am I restrained?”

“Because you keep trying to leave,” he said patiently. “And I want you to stay.”

“Oh,” she said. “That makes sense.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He stood, pausing to kiss her forehead on his way up. “It’s only for a little while. Soon, we won’t need them.”

She intended to ask what he meant by that, but she was distracted by the lovely patterns on the floor, and the question slipped away.

Oh, well. It probably wasn’t important.

 

Anonymous asked: “I reckon that the Cookie Monster would be a generous lover.”

It’s only through years of practice that Grant manages to keep a straight face as he gives the countersign, “But Big Bird is a gentleman.”

Beside him, Simmons makes a strangled noise, and he tightens his grip on her arm in warning.

“’Bout time you got here,” the guard says, giving Simmons a suspicious look. “What’s with the chick?”

“Leverage,” he says shortly, and the guard nods.

“Good choice,” he compliments.

Twenty minutes later, when every person in the base save Grant and Simmons is suffering under the effects of the airborne virus Simmons has introduced into the ventilation system, the guard is singing a different tune. Or he would be, if he weren’t busy trying to remember his own name.

“Nice work,” Grant says.

“Thank you.” Simmons sidles closer to him, avoiding the reach of a scientist that apparently thinks she’s on Wheel of Fortune. “Now can we  _please_  get back to the Bus?”

 

Anonymous asked: “Wait… We can have sex, but I can’t read your thesis outline?”

“And what did she say?” Skye asks, leaning forward.

“She said…” Fitz, as always happens when he tells this story, dissolves into laughter, leaving it to Jemma to finish for him.

“I told him that the sex was nice, but my thesis was important,” she says.

“No,” Skye says, eyes wide and clearly trying very hard not to join Fitz in his giggling.

“Yes,” Jemma confirms. “I’m afraid he didn’t take it very well.” She pats Fitz on the shoulder a touch absently as he tries, and fails, to speak. “Fitz is trying to tell you that he’s never seen someone throw such a fit as Jeffrey did, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“Who could blame him?” Skye asks, clearing her throat. “You seriously told him that your thesis was more important than sex with him?”

“In my defense, the sex was really only nice,” Jemma says. “Certainly not  _great_.” She grimaces. “He didn’t take  _that_  well, either.”

That does it; Skye loses her fight against her laughter, setting Fitz off again, and Jemma is helpless not to follow suit.

 

ilosttrackofthings asked: "Did you hear that?"

Simmons takes a nervous glance around the silent lab. “Hear what?”

“ _That_ ,” Skye says deliberately, “Was the sound of every person on the  _planet_  who has ever seen, read, or heard about Jurassic Park face-palming. All at once.”

“Oh, Skye,” Simmons scoffs, relaxing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Simmons!” she says. She curls her hands around the edge of the table to keep from reaching out and shaking her, because–seriously! “You can’t  _hatch_ a dinosaur!”

“Actually, I think you’ll find I–”

“Shouldn’t,” Skye amends, since Simmons is obviously about to try wiggling her way out of this with semantics. “You  _shouldn’t_  hatch a dinosaur. Haven’t  _you_  ever seen Jurassic Park?”

“Oh, yes, it’s one of my favorite films!” she says brightly, missing the point by like three hundred miles. “Of course, it has an absurd number of flaws from a scientific standpoint, but–”

Skye rubs her temples, letting Simmons’ happy chatter about Jurassic Park wash over her without really listening to it. How is it possible that one of the smartest people she’s ever met can be so  _dumb_?

“Did you hear that?” Simmons asks suddenly, cutting herself off mid-analysis of something sciencey. 

Skye listens, and–unfortunately–hears. Hears the unfamiliar but totally unmistakable sound of an egg starting to hatch.

Oh, fuck.

“It’s hatching!” Simmons exclaims excitedly, and hurries over to the incubator.

(Which, obviously this isn’t the moment, but the existence of the incubator is pretty awful on its own. She doesn’t know which possibility is worse: that dinosaur-sized incubators are standard issue for SHIELD teams, or that Simmons personally built it. Because on the one hand she’s starting to reach her limit on how freaking  _weird_  SHIELD is, but on the other, having time to design and build an incubator shows a little more advanced planning than Skye’s comfortable with.)

Skye watches the wiggling egg with a sinking feeling. She absolutely knows what she should do, which is grab the egg out of the incubator and stomp on it. But Simmons looks so  _happy_ –all gleeful like she hasn’t been since she nearly died a few weeks ago.

And, really, the dinosaur is just a  _baby_. She can’t kill a baby! It’s not  _its_  fault that Simmons’ common sense stands no chance against science.

There’s only one thing to do.

“I’m getting Ward,” she announces.

Simmons, busy cooing over the hatching egg like Hagrid over Norbert, doesn’t pay any attention as Skye turns on her heel and heads for the stairs.

Ward’s immune to things like excitement and puppy eyes. He can totally handle this.

She hopes.

 

simplyfragile asked: Biospecialist: "Just tell me the truth. No more games or lies, no more secrets...I want to know the truth."

“Okay.” Grant sighs and crouches in front of her, resting his hands on her thighs. “Here’s the truth, then: I killed him.”

Jemma takes a deep breath, curling her hands around the arms of her chair in an attempt to steady herself. It’s completely unsuccessful.

“Why?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“I don’t understand,” she says, though she fears she understands all too well. “Did he threaten you? Was he–”

“He was in my way,” Grant interrupts, tone almost kind. “And he pissed me off. So I got rid of him.”

The matter-of-fact way he says it–the way he might say that he got rid of a bottle of milk that’s gone off–is almost worse than the realization of what it must mean.

“You’re HYDRA,” she whispers.

“Yep,” he says, and squeezes her thighs. “So. What are you gonna do about it?"


	56. a spell that can't be broken (it'll keep you up all night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Color** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.

The air is humming with magic when Grant wakes, and he’s smiling even before he opens his eyes to find the room lit with blue light.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” he comments, rolling onto his back to better enjoy the patterns dancing along the ceiling. “Nice day?”

The magic trails turn bright yellow so quickly he has to shut his eyes against them; a second later, Jemma throws herself on top of him with a delighted squeal.

“You’re awake!” she exclaims, peppering his face with kisses. “It’s been  _hours_ , goodness, Grant, didn’t you sleep at all while you were gone?”

He has to tangle a hand in her hair and hold on tight in order to keep her still long enough to kiss her properly—and even then, they’re both smiling too widely for it to be much of a kiss. Even that’s a gift, though, after nearly a week away from her.

“Hey, baby,” he says. “Miss me?”

The trails turn purple as her love thrums in his chest, beating like a second heart.

“Tremendously,” she declares, and then pokes him sharply in the forehead. “However, don’t think I didn’t notice your lack of answer, there! Did you get any sleep at  _all_ while you were away?”

He catches her hand before she can poke him again, kissing her fingertips solely for the smile he knows it’ll get him.

“Not much,” he admits. The magic above them dims unhappily. “I’m  _fine_ , Jemma. We were just pressed for time, that’s all.”

“Did you at least complete your mission?” she asks.

“Yep,” he says. “Barton successfully retrieved—and with a new friend in tow.”

“What sort of new friend?”

The details of that are beyond classified and, more importantly, not likely to do much to ease her worry. Her eyebrows are still scrunched in displeasure, and while it’s an adorable look on her—as all looks are adorable on her—it’s definitely not his favorite.

“Enough about Barton,” he decides, and her frown is overtaken by a surprised laugh as he rolls her under him. “Let’s talk about you.”

“What about me?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head to weave her fingers together. It presses her breasts up against his chest, and the sheets pulse red with reflected light for a second before the trails above them return to purple. The thrumming in his chest picks up speed. “I’ve had a very boring six days without you, of course.”

“Really?” he asks. “No breakthroughs?” He lowers his head to kiss her, more successfully this time; heat curls through him as she hums, low and satisfied in the back of her throat, and his voice is rough to his own ears when he adds, “No world-changing discoveries?”

“Not this week,” she says, a little breathlessly. “We got rather silly after day three, I’m afraid. I can definitively tell you that adding an extra three grams of sugar to a fire-proofing potion is a bad idea, but aside from that…”

He pauses. “Is there sugar in fire-proofing potions?”

“Not usually, no,” she says, and her expression is so sheepish that he has to laugh.

She beams at him, and he can’t resist the urge to touch her properly, not anymore. The shirt she’s wearing isn’t tucked into her jeans, so it’s easy to get under it, to lay a hand directly against the skin of her ribs. After six days in the field, he’s pretty low on magic, but he’s got enough for this:

He sends a jolt of power along her nerves, a mix of lovelustlonging with just a touch of the residual pleasure he’s been storing since their goodbye on Monday, and she sucks in a sharp breath that ends on a whimper. The room fades from purple into red and stays there, this time.

“Grant,” she gasps, and hearing his name from her in that tone is more of a buzz than six  _weeks_ ’ worth of energy potions. “You’re too—”

“I’m not,” he interrupts. He balances his weight half on her and half on his elbow, careful not to crush her as he kisses his way down her neck. The thrumming in his chest is spreading outwards towards his extremities, and his skin tingles pleasantly. “I could never be too tired for you.”

“He says after—after coming home and sleeping ten straight hours,” she says, voice hitching as he nips at her collarbone. The bruise he left on Monday is still there, and the sight of it fills him with a smug sort of heat; she had to have taken deliberate action to keep her magic from healing it, and the thought of her doing that—of her walking around all week with his mark on her neck—is a hell of a turn on.

“I neglected you,” he murmurs, kissing the mark gently. “Let me make it up to you.”

She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, nails digging in just slightly. “Well…if you insist…”

“I do,” he says, and smiles against her skin as her other hand slides up his back.

“All right,” she sighs, but the smile on her face would belie her resigned tone even if the sparks dancing along his skin and the red magic in the air didn’t. “I suppose I can indulge you, just this once.” She tugs him up for another kiss, slow and filthy, and they’re both breathless when he finally pulls away. “But you had better make it worth my while.”

“Oh,” he says, and the pulse he sends along her nerves is enough to make her squirm, this time. “Believe me, I intend to.”


	57. Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the five-sentence prompts that grew out of control.

_ Anonymous asked: In hindsight, she should have just ignored her craving for pancakes. _

If she had, she wouldn’t be in her current position: sharing a booth with two of the most wanted people in the northern hemisphere.

“It’s all about the principle of the thing,” Skye is saying as she helps herself to a bite of Jemma’s pancakes. “You’re a  _genius_ , Simmons; you shouldn’t be wasting your life with a bunch of unimaginative squares like SHIELD.” She gives Jemma a wide-eyed, earnest look. “It’s just not right.”

“What she said,” Skye’s partner, Ward, agrees. He’s not eating her food, but he  _is_  sitting much closer than she generally prefers for criminals to sit. Even ridiculously attractive criminals. _Especially_  ridiculously attractive criminals. “Your talents could be put to much better use elsewhere.”

“What do you know about my talents?” Jemma asks. She’s never been into the field–for goodness’ sake, she’s barely left the Sandbox since being stationed there right out of the Academy! This holiday to visit her parents is the first time she’s been out of Africa in six years. “How do you even know who I  _am_?”

“Our inventor’s a fan,” Ward says. His arm is stretched along the back of the booth, and while it’s not unwise to be so conscious of it–he is, after all, a man very famous for his talent in dealing murder and mayhem–she has the unfortunate feeling that her hyper-awareness is born of all the wrong reasons. “You may have heard of him–Leo Fitz.”

She stares, forgetting for a moment her libido and its apparent lack of moral judgment. “ _Fitz_? That’s–no.” She looks between Ward and Skye, stunned. “You’re  _joking_.”

Fitz was her rival at the Academy for three months and her best friend for all of two weeks, before he very suddenly dropped out without warning. Over the years, she’s wondered about him occasionally–about what might have happened and where he might be–but to hear he’s fallen in with a group of criminals?

“Cross our hearts,” Skye swears, doing so. Then she frowns down at her shirt. “Ew. Syrup.”

“I can’t take her anywhere,” Ward sighs, smiling at Jemma like he’s inviting her in on a joke. It’s…quite a smile.

Belonging to a  _murderer_ , she reminds herself sternly. There’s a reason that even she has heard of these two and the criminal enterprise they run, and that reason is the trail of chaos and destruction they’ve left in their wake. They might be attractive and friendly (for the moment, at least), but she can’t allow herself to forget precisely whom she’s dealing with.

“Well,” she says, collecting herself. “You may tell Fitz that I hope he’s well, but if he’s sent you my way he’s done so in error. I’m perfectly happy with SHIELD, and I have no intention of leaving.”

“Okay, but.” Skye leans forward, resting her chin in one hand. “What if you don’t have a choice?”

Jemma swallows. “Do I? Not have a choice, that is?”

“Nah,” Ward says. He sits forward to help himself to a sip of her water, then settles back against the booth again, somehow managing to move even closer to her in the process. “We prefer our recruits willing.”

She thinks there’s an undertone to his voice which suggests he’s not speaking only of criminal activities, but she may be imagining it. Much of her attention is, it must be said, on the warm press of his thigh against hers.

“Then I will say thank you,” she says, a touch belatedly. “But no, thank you.”

Skye pouts. “Really? We can’t change your mind? Unlimited funding, lots of lab space, no pesky company ethics getting in the way of scientific progress…?” She raises her eyebrows. “None of that’s gonna win you over?”

“I’m afraid that my  _own_  ‘pesky ethics’ prevent me from accepting your job offer,” Jemma says, fighting back a smile. For such a dangerous woman, there’s something very likable about Skye. 

Perhaps that’s what makes her so dangerous.

“Lame,” Skye says, still pouting. “But okay, fine. Be that way.” She steals another bite of Jemma’s pancakes, then slides out of the booth. “Later.”

With that, she disappears out the door and into the street. Ward makes no move to follow.

“What about other kinds of offers?” he asks. His arm falls from the back of the booth to drape across her shoulders, instead, and Jemma’s breath catches in her throat. This time, she has no doubts about what she’s reading in his voice. “Your ethics gonna get in the way of those, too?”

“…Yes,” she says, though not nearly as firmly as she’d like.

Ward grins. “You sure? You don’t sound it.”

“I…”

“Tell you what,” he says,  and squeezes her shoulders. “I’ll let you get back to me on that.” 

He removes his arm, which she would love to say is a relief. Unfortunately, that would be a lie–it leaves her feeling quite bereft, in fact. As does the sudden absence of his warmth against her side as he slides out of the booth to stand.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says.

It should sound like a threat, but Jemma is troubled to realize, as she watches him leave, that it’s actually a promise. 

And not one she’s hoping to see him break.


	58. God-like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another five-sentence prompt. It's short, but gets its own chapter because it takes place in the same verse as [like a chain reaction (i feel it happening)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3972469)

_Anonymous asked: "You might be god-like, but you are NOT superior to me."_

Grant sighs. “ _A_  god, Jemma. I’m not god _-like_ , I’m a literal god.”

“That has yet to be conclusively proven,” Jemma insists. She’ll admit that his apparent ability to stop time is compelling evidence, but surely there are explanations  _other_  than godhood. “And my point remains.”

“I’m not saying that I’m superior to you,” he says patiently. “I’m saying that, physically, I don’t have the same limitations. Which means that I’m in a much better position to take care of this.” He slides his hands around her waist to rest at the small of her back, tugging her up against him and lowering his voice. “You’re stressed, sweetheart, and you’ve got your dissertation to worry about. Let me do this for you.”

He’s a very persuasive man; it’s difficult to argue with him when all of her attention is focused on the warmth of his body against hers and the gentle pressure of his hands against her back. They haven’t had sex yet–she’s been focused on her dissertation and has, thus far, only taken advantage of his ability to stop time to catch up on sleep–but they’ve come very close, and suddenly it’s all she can think about.

(Which was probably his aim, damn him.)

“No one will get hurt?” she checks.

“No one at all,” he promises, fingers tracing a very distracting pattern on her lower back. “You have my word.”

She hopes she won’t regret this. “Very well, then.” 

He grins and dips his head to kiss her, slow and intent and full of promises she  _knows_  she won’t regret him keeping. She’s fairly certain he’s just manipulated her, but as he backs her up against her door, it’s difficult to care.


	59. "Did I fall asleep?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Biospecialist, “Did I fall asleep?” Bonus points if the response to that is "For a little while." :)"

Grant wakes slowly, usual tension lulled by the fingers running through his hair and the premium grade painkillers running through his blood.

“Mmm.” As he shifts, the quiet, soothing humming above him stops. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Just for a little while,” Jemma says, petting his cheek.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “You’re still healing. You need your rest.”

“Still.” He turns his head to press a kiss to her thigh, warm and bare beneath his cheek, and she tugs gently at his hair.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Grant,” she scolds.

“Who says I can’t finish?” he asks, finally opening his eyes to look at her.

She’s gorgeous from this angle—from every angle—and the bruise darkening the right side of her face does nothing to detract from that.

“I do,” she says. “As your doctor.”

She bends to kiss him gently, one hand holding her hair back to keep it from falling into his face, and he pretty much proves her point, because he can barely muster up the energy to kiss her back. She smiles against his mouth.

“Told you,” she whispers, and sits up. “Sex can wait.” She returns to running her fingers through his hair, and he can feel sleep creeping up on him again. “I promise I will allow you to pin me to the bed and have your way with me as soon as you’re well again.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he warns, and she laughs, light and happy.

“Please do,” she says. “For now, go back to sleep.”

“You sure?” he asks. “Can’t be too exciting for you.”

She’s sitting back against the wall, and with him using her thigh as a pillow, she’s basically trapped. Her Kindle is on the nightstand, but it’s pretty far out of reach from this side of the bed.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she says. “I’ve been watching the rain. It’s nice.”

She gestures to the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall, and he turns his head to look. Admittedly, it’s a nice view, the lights of the city spread out beneath them made distant and blurry by the pouring rain, but he’s willing to bet it got old pretty quick.

He catches her hand before she can return it to his hair. “You wanna try that again?”

She winces a little, and he loosens his grip at once, pressing an apologetic kiss to her fingertips. With the painkillers she forced on him slowing things down, it’s hard to judge his own strength.

“It’s all right,” she says in response to his silent apology. “And yes, you’ve caught me; the rain is poor entertainment beyond the first hour or so. But really, I don’t mind.”

“No?” he asks. He’s pretty sure she’s not lying about that. “Never known you to be able to sit still for this long.”

Not without something to observe or take notes on, at least.

She lowers their clasped hands to rest on his chest as her free hand ghosts over the stitches in his forehead.

“I like sitting here,” she says, quietly. “Just the two of us, safe and sound. I like…” She presses her lips together for a second. “I like having you here.”

“I like being here,” he says, and squeezes her hand lightly. (He hopes.) “But you’re sure you don’t need anything?”

She shakes her head with a tiny smile. “Your men have been taking turns coming in to ask me that every twenty-one minutes precisely.”

He frowns. Only his most trusted men are allowed on this floor, and he already knew that they were all outside—the only reason he agreed to the drugs Jemma wanted him to take is because he has them here to watch his back. He’d expect nothing less of them than to see to her needs while he’s out, but…

“They’ve been in here?” he asks.

All she’s wearing is a tiny camisole, and the idea of any of his men—no matter how trusted—seeing her in so little makes rage kindle underneath the painkillers’ layer of cotton.

“None of that,” she says, tapping his forehead. “They’ve not entered the room, I promise. They just stand outside the door and shout.”

“Good,” he says, satisfied. Jemma rolls her eyes.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, softening the order with a fond smile. “I’ll be right here when you wake.”

“You’d better,” he warns, though the effect is probably ruined by the way his eyes are already drooping. This is why he hates being drugged; even  _his_  iron-clad self-control doesn’t stand a chance against the chemicals in his bloodstream. “Don’t make me hunt you down again.”

“I won’t,” she promises softly. “Never again.”

She picks up her humming again as she twists her fingers through his hair. The sound follows him into sleep.


	60. "Can I have this dance?" (Pancakes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another five-sentence prompt, but it gets its own chapter because a) it got long and b) it takes place in the same verse as **Chapter 57: Pancakes**.

_ilosttrackofthings asked: "Can I have this dance?"_

Jemma’s automatic refusal–because she’s already had quite enough of drunken colleagues using a dance as an excuse to grope her for one night, thanks very much–sticks in her throat when she looks up at the owner of the voice.

“Great,” Ward says, and pulls her out of her chair.

“What,” she stumbles a little over her own feet as he leads her to the dance floor, “What are you doing here? How did you even get  _in_?”

“I have my ways,” he says. “As for why I’m here…” He wraps his arm around her waist and tugs her up against him as the orchestra begins another song. “I wanted to see you get your award, of course.”

Her immediate, cutting response is lost to surprise as he sweeps her along the dance floor. She should have known he’d be an excellent dancer–an excellent  _lead_ , skilled enough to make up for the fact that her girlhood dance lessons lasted all of three weeks before she managed to bargain for horseback riding instead. She’s not  _terrible_ , but she’s never been anywhere near this good.

His hand is warm in hers, his arm solid around her waist, and–not for the first time–she thinks  _maybe_ …

And then she very firmly shuts down her libido in favor of common sense.

“I don’t believe you,” she says.

He frowns down at her. “It’s the truth.” Her heart jumps a little in her chest as he gives her some disturbingly effective puppy eyes. “Is it such a surprise I want to celebrate your success? Especially considering my contribution.”

The reminder hits her like a dash of cold water to the face.

“No,” she says, swallowing. “I suppose not.”

It’s easy to forget, with his handsome face and ridiculous physique and comfort in this company, that he’s a terrorist–a murderer. But the corpses he’s been leaving as presents for her–six bodies, to date, each with a red bow and a tag reading  _To Jemma Simmons, with love_ , each dead under highly suspicious circumstances–are not to be lightly dismissed.

He’s gorgeous and charming and has made his interest very clear, but he’s attempting to woo her through murder. She can’t allow herself to forget how dangerous he is, no matter that SHIELD seems happy to encourage his infatuation, passing along his  _presents_  in the hope that his interest will make him sloppy and let them, finally, catch him.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

Plenty of things are wrong, but she’s not foolish enough to call a man of his habits a murderer to his face. Certainly not when part of her–a tiny,  _minuscule_  part she’s doing her best to ignore–is actually slightly touched by the gifts. The gifts which are  _corpses_  for which she  _should not_  be grateful, even if determining the third’s cause of death did lead her directly to the discovery which earned her the accolades she received tonight.

She needs to stop thinking about this.

“No Skye tonight?” she asks.

His hand flexes on her hip. “She had other plans. But she told me to pass on her congratulations.” He smiles. “So did Fitz.”

The reminder that her one-time rival and former best friend is so closely involved with Ward makes her throat tight. She drops her gaze to stare at his tie.

“Thank you,” she says, softly.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and squeezes her hand. “So. Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

Far more than she’d like to admit.

“Which one?” she evades.

“Either, really,” he says. “But honestly I’m more concerned with the one that means I get to take you home with me and see what’s under that dress.”

She can’t help but flush, both at the words and at the way his tone deepens as he speaks them. There’s a promise there, and a not-insignificant part of her would very much like to let him keep it.

Murderer, she reminds herself. Terrorist.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” she says. “Again.”

“Pity,” he sighs, and squeezes her hand. “It’s a really great dress, by the way. You look beautiful.”

She darts a glance up at him; he looks completely sincere.

“Thank you,” she says. 

“You’re welcome.”

“You look very handsome,” she feels compelled to add.

He grins. “I know.”

She’s dismayed to realize that arrogance is just as attractive on him as his suit. Of course, if _murder_  isn’t enough to quell her desire for him, it was probably too much to hope that a little bit of ego would.

She’s in quite a bit of trouble here, she thinks.

The rest of their dance passes in silence, and when the song comes to an end, he releases her and steps back without complaint.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says, and lifts her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. The contact, brief as it is, is enough to make her hot all over, and he knows it well, if his grin is any indication. “I’ll see you around.”

With that, he walks away, disappearing easily into the crowd and leaving Jemma on the dance floor with only a worrying amount of temptation for company.

“I need a drink,” she decides, and heads for the bar.


	61. "She's not talking to you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence prompt which went waaay beyond five sentences

_ilosttrackofthings asked: "She's not talking to you."_

“Yeah,” Grant says, watching his wife clean the same beaker for the fifth time. “I picked up on that.”

Spending her time cleaning up the lab toes the line of  _working_ , but she’s already made more progress today than all of John’s scientists combined have made this week, so he decides not to press the issue. Instead, he focuses on the matter at hand.

“But she’s talking to you?” he asks, glancing at Fitz.

He shrugs. “To be fair, I haven’t killed anyone.”

“Huh.” Grant leans back against the table, considering that. “Is she gonna stop talking to me every time I kill someone from now on?”

He loves Jemma’s voice. It’d be a shame never to hear it again.

“I bloody well hope not,” Fitz says, obviously following the same line of thinking. 

Grant sighs. It was probably too much to hope that, upon realizing Fitz was HYDRA, too, Jemma would suddenly decide to abandon her principles and join up. Honestly, he knew this was coming the moment he saw the shock and horror on her face when Fitz greeted him the way he did in the shack–like the old friends they are, instead of as an enemy.

She’s furious and feeling betrayed; he should probably just be grateful that she’s stopped trying to disarm the guards and shoot him, but he’s impatient. He’s spent years pretending to be someone he’s not, and now that he’s free of it, he wants to get to know his wife properly. He wants  _her_  to get to know him.

That, unfortunately, is a long way off. It’s gonna take time to get her past this, and it’s not gonna be pretty. Especially not while he’s essentially holding her prisoner, with her best friend’s willing assistance.

But he’s gotta start somewhere, and the best place to start is with breaking her silent treatment–something he can’t do with Fitz here.

“Get lost,” he orders.

Fitz rolls his eyes good-naturedly and thumps him on the back. “Good luck.”

Grant waits until the door slides shut behind him, then crosses the lab to stand behind Jemma. She ignores him.

“Jemma,” he says.

She very deliberately sets down the beaker she’s cleaning and picks up another one, which has also been cleaned at least three times since he walked in.

“Baby.”

No response.

He steps closer, sliding his arms around her waist and tugging her back against his chest, but instead of melting into him the way she usually does, she remains tense.

“Baby,” he says in her ear, “I can’t make it better if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

In answer, she tries to twist away from him and, when he holds her in place, stomps on his foot.

It’s possible he’s underestimated just how angry she is.

“Jemma–”

She elbows him right in his cracked ribs, and it hurts enough to make him let go.  _Not_  enough to keep him from catching her when she jerks away, though, and this time he pins her between his body and the counter, leaving his hands free to catch her wrists.

“That was unnecessary,” he says mildly, careful to keep the pain–and there’s a  _lot_  of it–he’s feeling out of his voice. “If you want me to let you go, all you have to do is say so.”

Jaw tight, she stares over his shoulder, and he frowns. She’s furious, yeah, but she’s scared, too. Her pulse is pounding against his fingers, and her shallow breathing is obvious from the rapid rise and fall of her chest against his.

It can’t be helped, of course. But he still hates it.

“All you have to do is tell me to let you go,” he says again. “And I will.”

She swallows audibly, but still doesn’t speak or make eye contact. Her eyes are glossy with unshed tears, and her rapid blinking as she tries to hold them back is genuinely more painful than the throbbing in his ribs.

Fuck.

“Baby,” he says, softly. “Look at me.” He angles his head, hoping to catch her eyes, but she turns hers away. “Please?”

She keeps her gaze fixed obstinately on the holotable and her mouth shut tight.

He sighs. He knows exactly how to force this, how to corner her into speaking, but all it’ll do is scare her even worse, and he doesn’t want that. He wants her to love him, not fear him.

“You don’t want me to force this issue, baby,” he warns. 

She hitches her chin, just a little, the way she does when she’s trying to be brave, and his heart clenches.

He knows how to break her silence, can read her limits in the angle of her chin and the beat of her pulse in her wrist. All it would take is a kiss, the slightest press of his lips to hers while she’s trapped against the counter with no way to escape, and her rebellion would buckle under the weight of her terror.

That’s all it would take.

But he can’t do it. He can’t see her break and he sure as fuck can’t be the one to shove her over the edge.

“God damn it,” he mutters, and he lets her go.

She stumbles a little at the sudden absence of his hold, but he doesn’t stick around to steady her; he’s already heading for the door. He can feel her eyes following him out of the lab and into the cargo bay. She still doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t need to. 

He can hear her accusations ringing in his ears anyway.


	62. providential timing: seven months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence prompt, which got its own chapter because a) long and b) it takes place in the same verse as **Chapter 41: providential timing** and **Chapter 42: providential timing: 4 and 3/4 hours later**. You might wanna read those first.

_Anonymous asked: "Why are you watching the Housewives of Beverly Hills?"_

Grant’s voice startles Jemma awake, and only his hands on her shoulders keep her from flailing right off the couch.

“Grant,” she snaps, pressing a hand to her racing heart, “Don’t  _do_  that.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, not sounding it at all. “But my question remains.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. His hands are cold through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“What was the question?” she asks.

“Why are you watching the Housewives of Beverly Hills?”

She glances at the television and makes a face, reaching for the remote.

“I’m not,” she says, turning the telly off. “I fell asleep watching some cooking show or another.” She tips her head back to look at him and finds him watching her with a little smile. “What?”

“You were waiting up for me,” he says, obviously pleased.

“No, I wasn’t,” she denies at once. Unfortunately, it’s hardly convincing.

“You don’t even know what show you were watching,” he points out. One of his hands leaves her shoulder to cup her cheek, and she flinches away from the cold touch. 

“You’re freezing,” she says, deciding that a change of subject is in order. “Did you just get home?”

It’s two degrees outside, which would account for the chill to his skin.

“Work ran long,” he says, with a slight shrug. He frowns. “And as much as I appreciate you waiting up for me–”

“I wasn’t,” she protests.

He ignores her. “–you shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch.”

She’s tempted to say she’ll sleep where she pleases, but that’s not a fight she’s eager to have again, so she forces a smile.

“You’re right, of course,” she says. “I should get to bed. Help me up?”

She hates the smile it puts on his face, but she’s learnt to pick her battles with him, and it’s better to keep him in a good mood than to score such a minor victory.

He rounds the couch and offers her both his hands, and she takes them, allowing him to leverage her to her feet. Sadly, she truly does need the assistance; in her eighth month of pregnancy, her center of balance has shifted enough that even tasks as simple as standing are difficult to accomplish alone.

“There,” he says, once she’s steady. He smiles again, releasing one of her hands in favor of rubbing the swell of her stomach. “How’s she doing?”

“Not kicking, for once,” she answers. “I should sleep while I can.”

“You should,” he agrees, and raises his eyebrows at her. “Mind if I join you?”

She pauses. Months ago, the answer would have been an instant  _no_ , and she thinks it should horrify her that her impulse now is to say yes. That her impulse  _has been_ to say yes. He has his own bedroom, separate from hers, but he hasn’t slept in it in weeks. 

Yet he always asks before joining her in hers. She doesn’t know whether it’s a kindness or a taunt; that it seems not to matter is another thing which should probably horrify her.

But she is pregnant and alone in the lion’s den, with only Grant as company, and with everything else…well, most days it’s just too much  _trouble_  to fight her love for him. Perhaps she’ll feel differently after their daughter is born, when her hormones have a chance to re-balance themselves and she’s returned to a more even keel, but for the moment…

“Yes, please,” she says.

He smiles. “Thank you.”

The kiss he presses to her forehead is as cold as his hands. She doesn’t flinch.


	63. "The zombie apocalypse is overrated"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence prompt, which gets its own chapter because a) long and b) it takes place in the same verse as [run as fast as you can (and we'll make it out alive)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2816639)

_Anonymous asked: "The zombie apocalypse is overrated."_

“Sorry to disappoint,” Jemma says, a touch distractedly, as she prepares another slide. “What were you expecting, precisely?”

“Norman Reedus,” Skye says at once. “Norman Reedus with a crossbow.”

Personally, Jemma will take Grant over any actor any day, but she can understand where Skye is coming from.

“I will see your argument,” she says, “And raise you the fact that the Cellar has fully functional indoor plumbing.”

“You’re definitely on to something, there,” Skye admits, and rests her chin on her fist. “Although it’s easy for you to say, Mrs. Director.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. Ever since they got past the initial clingy stage of their reunion, Skye has offered no end of mocking on the topic of Jemma’s somewhat murky position in the chain of command–to say nothing of Jemma’s sex life. (Although, admittedly, she and Grant rather did bring mocking about  _that_ upon themselves by disappearing into his quarters for three whole days immediately upon arrival.)

(In her defense, however, a good twelve of those seventy-two hours were spent in the shower, alone, enjoying the feeling of being properly clean.)

“Your mythical boyfriend doesn’t stack up against Daryl Dixon?” she asks. It’s been nearly six weeks, and she’s still yet to meet the man Skye is dating; if she trusted Skye a little less, she might believe him to be entirely fictional.

“Of course he does,” Skye says loyally, then frowns. “But  _your_  dictator of a husband keeps sending him out on supply runs, and he’s not doing me much good there, is he?”

“Actually,” Grant says, and pauses to allow Jemma and Skye to jump and swear at him, respectively, from the surprise. “I’d say he’s doing you more good on the supply runs than he would here. You like to eat, don’t you?”

“Would you stop  _doing_  that?” Skye demands. “Like we don’t have enough to be scared of without you ninja-ing around the base all the time!”

“What’s a zombie movie without a jump scare?” he asks, and pushes off the door frame as Skye makes a face at him. He crosses the lab to join Jemma at her workstation, slipping an arm around her waist and pressing a sweet kiss to her temple. “How’s it coming, Jem?”

“Slowly,” she says.

“Is Skye a distraction?” he asks. “I can throw her in a cell, if you like.”

“Hey, I’m not the one getting handsy in the middle of the work day, buster,” Skye says.

Grant quirks an eyebrow at her. “Buster?”

“Director Buster sir,” she amends, with a half-hearted salute. He rolls his eyes. “But seriously, I don’t think you have room to point fingers on the distraction front.”

“No?” he asks.

“She’s right,” Jemma agrees, leaning into him a little. His hand is warm on her hip, and it’s much more distracting than Skye’s playful whining.

“See?” Skye asks. “I’m totally right; Jemma says so.” She swivels a little on her stool to aim a kick in Grant’s direction–although, as there’s a good six feet of space between them, there’s no risk of it connecting. “And don’t think I don’t recognize that face you’re wearing,  _sir_.”

“What face would that be, Skye?” he asks mildly.

“ _That_  is your I’m-about-to-kidnap-my-wife-for-some-afternoon-delight face,” she accuses. Jemma, glancing up at his expression, is forced to agree. “And I am shocked– _shocked_ , I say–by your lack of professionalism.”

“Well, luckily for me,” Grant says, “Being in charge means I don’t need to be professional.”

“Really?” Skye asks, as Jemma busies herself with wrapping up her work. All joking aside, it’s apparent that Grant intends to steal her away, and she doesn’t want to leave anything half-finished when he does. “You’re not worried what the voters will think?”

“It’s a dictatorship, remember?”

She lets their playful banter fade into the background as she works, allowing the cadence of their voices and the familiar tones to soothe some of the tension in her spine. More than a month after her arrival at the Cellar, it’s still difficult to believe, some days, that she’s truly here–that she won’t wake any moment, back with the others on some forgotten stretch of highway, widowed and alone.

It’s why she encourages Skye to keep her company while she works–and why she’s so willing to abandon her work mid-stream for some time with Grant. The research she’s doing is important–it will be literally world-saving, if she accomplishes her goal–but it’s nothing against two years of grief and loss.

She’s not surprised, as she makes note of her findings (or lack thereof) for the day, to realize that she’s humming. The world has ended, but Grant is solid and warm against her side and Skye is laughing in her peripheral vision and people are bustling through the corridor outside, safe and happy and dedicated to protecting her little family.

Who cares about the world? Jemma has everything she needs right here.


	64. "You can't hide the truth forever, you know"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "You can’t hide the truth forever, you know."
> 
> Takes place in the same verse as **Chapter 59: "Did I fall asleep?"** You might wanna read that first, but this takes place before-hand, so you don't really need to.

Jemma isn’t hiding.

Of course she’s not hiding. It’s  _impossible_  to hide in this building; there are more cameras than corners, and not a single blind spot to be found. There is not a single room in this building—base—in which one can avoid surveillance. Aside, of course, from her bedroom, but she would hardly attempt to hide  _there_.

Not that she’s hiding. Because she’s really not.

She’s just…breathing. Nice slow, even inhales that fully inflate her lungs followed by slow, even exhales. That’s all she’s doing. Breathing. And everyone has to breathe, don’t they? Human beings can’t survive without oxygen. It’s so vital to survival that the body actually does it on its own, instinctively, with no conscious thought whatsoever. There’s nothing odd about breathing.

That she’s chosen to do it in a closet is just for convenience’s sake, that’s all.

All of this she would explain to the man who just stepped into the closet to find her in the corner, but she doesn’t have the chance.

“Um…” The man—she’s no idea who he is, and as he’s backlit by the brighter lights of the corridor, she can’t read his ID badge—blinks rapidly. “Are you…okay, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes,” she assures him brightly. “I’m fine. I’m simply—” He ducks back into the corridor, and she finishes on a sigh. “Breathing.”

Not unexpectedly, the door opens again less than five minutes later. This time, she knows very well who the intruder is—and would even if he  _didn’t_  greet her in such a familiar manner.

“Hey, baby,” Grant says, closing the door. This supply closet is fairly large, as closets go—larger than her bunk on the Bus was, she thinks with a sudden pang—but his presence makes it feel absolutely tiny. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she says, hugging her knees. “I’m just breathing, that’s all.”

He nods, recognizing that this is a perfectly ordinary thing to do. “Breathing’s good. How’s it going?”

“Excellently, thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry they disturbed you.”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “It was a boring conversation anyway.” He crosses what little distance there is between them and crouches in front of her. “Just out of curiosity, is there a reason you chose this closet to breathe in?”

She looks around, scanning the shelves stacked high with office supplies and ammunition both. There’s not an inch of empty wall space to be found—which means there’s not an inch of empty wall space to decorate with a certain logo whose eyes follow her everywhere she goes.

“It’s as good a place as any for breathing, wouldn’t you say?” she asks.

Grant smiles, and she knows by the satisfied edge to it that she hasn’t fooled him at all.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

He shifts to sit next to her and drapes an arm around her shoulders, tugging her up against his side. She moves willingly, curling into the warmth of his skin—the closet is good for breathing in, but it’s very chilly, and Grant is an excellent source of heat.

“If you needed some air,” he says, after a few moments of comfortable silence, “Perez would’ve been happy to take you out.”

She trails her fingers along his thigh, writing out the chemical formula for the serum she spent this morning perfecting. It’s not done, as yet, but she’s getting close; soon she’ll need a new project to work on.

“I don’t like Perez,” she says.

Grant doesn’t tense or still or even twitch, but she can feel a change come over him nonetheless—can almost  _hear_  his focus sharpen.

“Oh?” he asks idly. “Why not?”

In a moment of fancy, she thinks that somewhere in the building, an awful chill must be coming over Perez as he passes very, very close to death. A single wrong word from her now will end his life.

She has no intention of dooming him but, as ever, the knowledge that she  _could_  sits like a weight on her chest.

She breathes.

“He’s quite obsequious,” she says. “It’s aggravating. I like Markham better.”

“Yeah, me too,” he agrees. “Which is why I can’t spare him.” He hugs her a little tighter. “I’ll take Perez off your rotation, though. How do you like Ortilla?”

“He’s funny,” she says. “But he’s far too tall.”

Grant huffs a laugh. “You got something against tall people, Jem?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes, cuddling closer to him. Breathing is much easier while he’s here. “But he’s intimidating. The last time he escorted me out, he scared everyone away.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s kind of the point—to keep people away from you.”

“I like people,” she reminds him. “It’s nice to share idle conversation with strangers, sometimes—something which is completely impossible when Ortilla terrorizes anyone who so much as looks at me.”

“He was trying to keep you safe.” Grant shrugs slightly. “It’s his job.”

He’s being honest, and that’s the worst part, really. Perez, Ortilla, and all of the other men on the rotating guard detail which accompanies her whenever she sets foot outside the building are there solely for her protection. Not to watch her. Not to keep her from running away.

She betrayed all of her friends for the sake of being with Grant. She’s certain it’s occurred to him that she might change her mind—because he always plans for every eventuality—but he’s obviously deemed it a very minor risk.

She’d like to believe that he’s wrong—that someday she’ll conquer, or at least suppress, her love for him, that she’ll put this right, leave him, and finally be rid of the awful sick feeling in her lungs—but she fears he’s entirely correct.

She was weak enough to walk away from SHIELD for him. The chances of her finding the strength to walk away from  _him_  are slim to none.

“Baby?”

She breathes. “Yes, I suppose it is. Still, perhaps someone less visually intimidating?”

“Huh.” He taps his fingers against her shoulder thoughtfully. “I could put Hicks back on the rotation. You like him, don’t you?”

The last time Hicks took her out, he dragged her to get an ice cream because she, quote, looked sad, and then spent a good twenty minutes attempting to convince her to attend a baseball game to _broaden her horizons_.

“Yes,” she says, unable to hold back a fond smile at the memory. “He’d be acceptable.”

“Then it’s done,” Grant says. “He’s in Colombia right now, but he’ll be back and on your rotation by the end of the week.”

“Thank you.”

“I want you to be happy.” He tips her chin up with the hand not currently occupied tracing distracting circles on her shoulder and dips his head to kiss her. It’s soft—comforting—and it eases a few of the ever-present knots in her stomach. A few more ease when he pulls away to add, “Anything I can do to make that happen, I will.”

“Thank you,” she repeats, and lays her head on his shoulder. “You do make me happy.”

It’s not his fault that her guilt increases proportionally with her happiness.

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You still feeling the need for some air? I can ditch the rest of my meetings and take you somewhere, if you want.”

“Oh, I should probably get back to work,” she says. “But that does sound nice. Tomorrow?”

“You bet.” He kisses her hair again, then removes his arm from her shoulders and stands. “Walk you back to your lab?”

She accepts his offered hand and lets him pull her to her feet, then continues onto her toes to kiss him quickly.

“You go ahead,” she says. “I think I’ll take a moment more.”

“Okay,” he says, and drops a sweet kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t work too late.”

“I won’t,” she promises.  _That_  is a habit she successfully broke after the third time he came down to physically carry her out of the lab and up to their quarters.

Grant takes his leave, and Jemma slumps back against the shelves as the door shuts behind him. Her lungs compress at his absence; breathing is more difficult. Her reflection shows in the glass covering the gun locker across from her, and to her own eyes she looks pale and fragile.

“You can’t hide from the truth forever, you know,” she tells her reflection. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face it.”

Her reflection offers no reassurance.


	65. father's day (obsession verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the same verse as **Chapter 45: obsession**. You might want to read that first.

Saturday night has become Sunday morning by the time Grant makes it home.

Part of that’s his fault—he made a stop-over in Coimbra to shower and change at his safehouse there in order to avoid having to sit through a debrief covered in blood—but most of it is down to Whitehall’s obsessive need to document every single item recovered from every SHIELD base they take, right down to the staplers. It’s one of the most annoying processes Grant’s ever been involved in, and every time it happens he gets that much closer to shooting Whitehall in the face and naming  _himself_  head of HYDRA.

He’s exhausted and more than ready to collapse as he lets himself into his quarters, but he doesn’t go straight to the bedroom. There’s no way he’ll be able to get to sleep now, wound up with aggravation as he is. He needs to calm down a little, first.

So, after he drops his duffel and kicks off his boots, he heads for the nursery.

Even though it’s pushing four am, he’s not really surprised to find Jemma already there.

She’s on the ground next to the crib, legs tucked under her, and she’s lowered the bars so she can rest her crossed arms on the edge of the mattress. She lifts her head a little to glance over her shoulder as he closes the door behind him, but once she realizes it’s him, she goes right back to staring at Sofia.

Their daughter is sleeping quietly, no sign of distress on her sweet face, and just the sight of her is enough to kill his annoyance. He crosses the room on silent feet and lowers himself to sit next to Jemma, joining her in watching Sofia breathe.

Jemma, in what would have been a major victory six months ago but is now just normal, leans into him.

“Welcome home.”

“Hey.” He kisses her temple and then returns his attention to Sofia, imagining the tension of the day seeping out of him with every rise and fall of her chest. “She okay?”

“She’s fine,” Jemma says. “Though she missed you at bedtime.”

“I missed her, too,” he says honestly. “Sorry I’m so late.”

“That’s all right,” she says. She straightens, reaching out to adjust Sofia’s sheet, and he notes the tremor in her fingers. “We survived.”

He takes another look at her, absorbing the lines around her mouth and the stiffness in her shoulders. “Are  _you_  okay?”

She wilts; he wraps his arm around her shoulders and settles her more firmly against him, and she draws her knees up as she cuddles into his side.

“It was just a dream,” she says, as much to herself as to him. “I’m fine.”

That explains it. “You had another nightmare?”

She nods miserably against his shoulder, and he sighs. It’s been almost exactly eight months since Sofia was kidnapped, and Jemma’s nightmares about it—about Sofia being dead or missing or worse—show no signs of stopping. Not that he can blame her—he’s had a dream or two of his own, and the steps he took to convince Jemma to leave SHIELD for him only increased her paranoia—but it’s starting to get kind of worrying.

“I was going to bring her to sleep in our bed,” she says almost apologetically. “But she looked so peaceful; I didn’t want to disturb her.”

Sofia is a ridiculously sound sleeper—not just for a baby, for  _anyone_. She literally slept through an evacuation when their last base got attacked by Avengers during naptime. When she’s asleep, she’s _asleep_ , and nothing’s gonna wake her until she’s good and ready. Picking her up and moving her to a different bed wouldn’t be enough to disturb her.

Which means that Jemma’s little vigil is, again, less about Sofia and more about her. She didn’t  _want_  to move Sofia, and he’s got a pretty good idea of why.

They’ve been sleeping together for three months now, and in those three months he’s managed to piece together pretty much all of her nightmares, based solely on the fragmented sentences she sobs out while he tries to comfort her.

One of them involves Sofia being stolen right out of her arms while she’s helpless to stop it, and he’d lay odds that’s the one she had tonight. It’s not unusual for her to be left with the irrational fear that simply picking Sofia up will summon an enemy to steal her away.

Again, it’s kind of worrying, and definitely something they need to work on. But in the meantime, the solution is a simple one, and one that he’s more than happy to put into place.

“Well,” he says, and squeezes her once before getting to his feet, “I’ve had a really long day, and getting some sleep with my two favorite women is definitely the way I want to end it. So I’m afraid poor Sofia is just gonna have to live with being disturbed. I think it’ll be okay.”

He bends to pick Sofia up, and what little tension is left from his day disappears as he settles her against his shoulder. She barely twitches except to snuggle closer, and he kisses her hair, chest warm with emotions he doesn’t think will ever be familiar, no matter how often he feels them these days.

“See?” he asks Jemma, who’s staring up at them with a soft smile. “She’s fine.” He pointedly taps the gun holstered at his waist before returning his hand to Sofia’s back. “And I’m gonna keep her that way. Okay?”

Jemma doesn’t flinch at the implication—far from it, in fact. Her smile softens further, and she pushes herself to her feet.

“I know you will,” she says, not a hint of doubt in her voice, and he smiles to himself.

They’ve come a long way from those first days, when he could see her thinking about taking Sofia and running every time she looked at him. She trusts him to protect them both, now; she’s left behind all thoughts that she might need to protect Sofia from  _him_.

And that’s not all that’s changed in the eight months.

He has his freedom. He has a job that, while occasionally frustrating, is something he both enjoys and excels at. Most importantly, he has his daughter, who is happy and healthy and smiles every time she sees him, and his daughter’s mother, who currently holds the title of girlfriend and, slowly but surely, is becoming open to the possibility of more.

In short, life is pretty much perfect, and as he follows Jemma out of the nursery, he makes a mental note to send Robert Gonzales another thank-you card. None of this would be possible if his paranoia hadn’t led him to order Sofia kidnapped in the first place.

It’s the only reason Grant hasn’t killed him for it.

Yet.


	66. "Have faith!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence fic that gets its own chapter because a) long and b) it doubles as a fill for the **library** theme at Ward x Simmons summer.

_safelycapricious asked: "Have faith! Anything can fit if you shove hard enough!"_

Grant stops, glancing at the aisle he’s just passed. Does he want to know?

No.

Does he  _need_  to know?

He thinks of the lecture he received last week after the university got a complaint about someone’s kid seeing a couple of grad students having sex in the reference section and sighs.

Yeah. He needs to know.

He steels himself and backtracks to the aisle, only to find that there’s no steeling necessary. He smiles–totally against his will, he just literally can’t stop himself–and approaches the girls currently scanning the 320 (political science) shelves.

“Hey,” he says, and grins as they both jump. “Need some help?”

“Oh,” Skye (and he really should have recognized her voice) says, frowning. “It’s  _you_.”

Jemma, on the other hand, beams at him. As always, it causes a weirdly giddy feeling in his chest, and, also as always, he does his best to ignore it.

“Hello, Grant,” she greets brightly, and elbows Skye.

“Hi,” Skye says, monotone and unenthusiastic.

“Hey,” he says again. “So? Do you?”

“Do we what?” Jemma asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. She does it kind of awkwardly, the way he’s noticed some girls do when they’re faced with a crush and not sure what to do with their hands, and he puts another tick in the  _Jemma totally wants me_  column, bringing it up to about four thousand points for and six against.

Unfortunately, that tick in the  _Jemma’s not eighteen_ column has yet to be erased, so he’s forced to ignore this signal, the same way he did the first three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.

“Need some help,” he clarifies.

“Oh,” she says, smile dimming a little. “No, thank you. We’re fine.”

“Unless you’ve got a bigger bag,” Skye says, nudging the bag at Jemma’s feet with her toes. “Since _someone_  was totally unprepared for this trip to the library.”

He glances at the bag and winces. It’s stuffed to bursting with books; there’s definitely no room for the two each Skye and Jemma are holding–which explains that comment of Skye’s he overheard–and even without those four, he has the feeling it’s gonna be heavy enough to be a problem carrying across campus.

He tamps down on the urge to offer to carry Jemma’s books for her, reminding himself that a) that move was lame even in high school, b) he’s  _not_  in high school,  and c) she’s old enough to be. He might not be a saint, but he’s a good enough guy–or  _wants_  to be a good enough guy–not to mess around with a teenager, even if she  _is_  closer to getting her third PhD than he is to getting his first.

“Actually, you’re in luck,” he says. “The Friends of the Library had their annual book sale a few days ago, and we’ve still got a whole bunch of bags stashed under the circulation desk. I’ll go get one…” He takes another glance at the bag. “…or six for you.”

“Thank you, Grant,” Jemma says, grinning at him like he’s just offered to fund an expedition to the Amazon Rainforest (what, he listens when she talks) and not just walk across the library to fetch a few bags. “We truly appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Skye adds, reluctantly, when Jemma elbows her again. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says–to Jemma, definitely, and not Skye. “Be right back.”

Squeezing past Jemma in the narrow aisle is closer to temptation than he really wants to get (the mind is resolute–mostly–but the hands think she looks  _really touchable_  in those tiny shorts), so he turns and goes back the way he came, then cuts through the next aisle.

This allows him to hear Skye’s incredulous, “Really?  _That’s_  why we had to skip lunch to come here in the middle of the afternoon instead of this morning? So you could smile at the afternoon librarian?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jemma mutters.

Grant knows he’s smiling like an idiot as he continues on to the circulation desk, but he really can’t help it.

She didn’t deny it.


	67. no touching (chain reaction verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Can i please request more fic from your chain reaction verse? Its my fave! Thank you!
> 
> [(like a chain reaction (i feel it happening)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3972469)

Jemma knows when Grant appears. She doesn’t see or hear him–his teleportation, or whatever he wants to call it, is silent, and her arm is slung over her eyes–but she can  _feel_  his arrival as a not-unpleasant tingling at the base of her spine.

It’s a fairly new sensation; he used to startle her every time he appeared, but he hasn’t been able to sneak up on her in nearly two weeks. He’s attributed it to their growing closeness (something about her becoming accustomed to his  _power_ ) but he was surprisingly pleased at the development, considering how much enjoyment he’s always seemed to take in making her jump, so she suspects there’s more to it than that.

She keeps meaning to press the issue, but somehow she hasn’t got around to it yet. And today she simply  _cannot_  be bothered with it. With anything, really.

Including him.

“Go away,” she orders, before he can say anything. 

Naturally, he doesn’t listen. “Jemma? Is there a reason you’re on the floor?”

“Yes,” she says and raises her other hand at him in a clear warding-off gesture. “And if you’re not going to leave, at least don’t come any closer.”

“O….kay.” The room is (unfortunately) quiet, so she can hear the shift of fabric as he moves, but as he obeys her request and doesn’t approach her, she doesn’t care what he’s doing. “Any particular reason?”

She removes her arm from her eyes to stare at him incredulously, but he looks honestly puzzled. He’s dressed head to toe in black, in the jeans and Henley she usually loves to see him in, and looking perfectly comfortable.

They’ve been approaching what Jemma’s roommates would call “l-word territory,” but in this moment, she honestly hates him a little.

“It,” she says slowly. “Is  _bloody hot_.” She gestures pointedly to herself, to the tiniest shorts and thinnest vest she owns, and the fact that, despite how very little she’s wearing, she’s nearly soaked with sweat. “You and your body heat need to remain at  _least_  two meters away from me right now.”

Grant frowns down at her, then looks around the room. “I thought your building was air-conditioned.”

“It’s  _broken_ ,” she says mournfully, and rolls on to her stomach. The wood floor is marginally cooler than any other surface in the flat, and she’s made six circuits of it in the last two hours alone, seeking the slightest relief. “They’ve been promising for days to fix it, but they haven’t yet.”

He hums thoughtfully and squats down next to her. “You know, this is an impressive level of cruelty.”

“Leaving the air conditioning broken?” she asks, slightly confused. It’s not that she  _disagrees_ , but it’s rather an odd way to phrase things.

“No,” he smiles. “Wearing this little and telling me not to touch you.”

Jemma rolls her eyes so hard she fears she might actually strain something.

“It’s nothing to do with you at all,” she says. “However, unless you can…I don’t know, snap your fingers and drop the temperature by at least ten degrees, I must insist: no touching.”

“Jemma, please,” he says, sounding offended. “As if I need to snap my fingers.”

Even as she’s processing the implications of his words, her spine tingles and the room becomes noticeably cooler. Within seconds, it’s nearly chilly, and the sudden brush of cool air against her sweat-dampened skin is actually enough to make her shiver.

“That,” she says, seriously, as she pushes herself into a sitting position, “Is amazing.”

“I know,” he says, and quirks an eyebrow at her. “So. Can I touch you now?”

She grimaces down at herself. The change in temperature hasn’t removed the effects of the heat on her body; having been sweating non-stop for so long has left her feeling absolutely disgusting and not at all sexy.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says. “At least not until I’ve showered.”

He looks her over, a slow perusal that leaves her skin prickling in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

“I can help you with that, too,” he offers with a smile.

It’s more tempting than it should be, but she shakes her head.

“The bathroom’s far too small for that,” she says, regretfully, and gets to her feet. “Just…wait here. I’ll only be a moment.”

He straightens to his full height and catches her arm before she can get more than two steps away.

“Or,” he says, pulling her up against his chest with one quick tug, “You could use my shower.”

She blinks up at him. “ _Your_  shower?”

Of course she knows he must live  _somewhere_ , but he’s never made reference to it before. He’s certainly never invited her over.

“My shower,” he repeats. “It’s much bigger than yours.” He eyes the corners of her room derisively. “So is my bedroom. And,” he adds, lowering his tone, “I don’t have any nosy roommates.”

Jemma’s roommates are two older girls, both of whom are incredibly judgmental about Grant’s apparent age and have made a practice of interrupting them whenever possible. It’s truly beginning to irritate her–not just the interruptions, but the effort that follows as she’s forced to convince Grant not to, quote,  _smite_  them.

“…Is it very far?” she asks.

He grins. “Not the way I travel.”

That tears it, then. She’s been dying to get more data on Grant’s teleportation, and this sounds like an excellent opportunity.

“Very well,” she says. “Just let me grab a change of clothes, then.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, and slips an arm around her waist. “You won’t need them.”


	68. (this world) might've gone crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Classic** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.

“Really?” Grant asks, swiping the back of his wrist across his mouth.

His skin’s got the particular tacky feeling that only comes from having the lipstick of a woman he’s just kissed smeared all over his mouth, and while his men are too scared of him to laugh about it, the SHIELD agents they’ve just captured probably aren’t.

(They will be by the time he’s done with them, but for the moment, he’d rather not have to kill half of his new prisoners right off the bat for being rude. That’s just wasteful.)

So even though he’s wasted enough time already, he takes a minute to ensure he gets all the lipstick off of his face.

“Really what?” Simmons asks almost petulantly. She tugs futilely against the cuffs keeping her in place and pouts at him. “And are these truly necessary?”

“Yes,” he says, shortly, as he digs through her pack. He’s not turning his back on her, even to bring her out of this room, until he’s sure she doesn’t have any of those things—splinter bombs, he’s since learned—that disintegrated Bakshi. He learned his lesson last time; he won’t be underestimating her again. “And  _really_ , kissing as a distraction?”

“It’s a classic,” she defends, and she’s  _definitely_  petulant this time.

“It’s a  _cliché_ ,” he corrects. “And it doesn’t work.”

“Apparently not,” she says.

For a woman that spent a good fifteen minutes making out with the enemy before she remembered she was supposed to be trying to escape, only to realize he’d known exactly what she was up to and had cuffed her to a convenient pipe thirty seconds in, she’s looking remarkably unashamed of herself.

She’s also looking remarkably tempting, with her shirt half-open and her hair in disarray. He probably let that go a little further than he should’ve, but hey. She started it.

“But seriously,” he says, setting her pack—completely free of splinter bombs, guns, knives, or anything else that could be used against him—aside and straightening from his crouch. “Of all the available options, why pick kissing me as your distraction technique?”

“Well, I considered utilizing my advanced knowledge of martial arts,” she says dryly, “But I thought perhaps that would be better saved for my inevitable escape attempt.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.” She’s gotten more sarcastic since their days on the team, he thinks; he likes it. “So, you ready to go?”

“Where are we going?” she asks, a little warily.

He steps into her space—closer than he really needs to, if he’s honest—to do up the buttons he unbuttoned during their little make-out session and notes, with satisfaction, the way her eyes dilate at his proximity and the uptick in her breathing as his knuckles brush her skin.

It’s not fear he’s reading off of her—and it’s not hate, either. And that desperation in the way she kissed him wasn’t  _all_  born of wanting to get away.

There’s a reason it took her so long to realize he’d restrained her, and he’s pretty sure he knows what it is.

Sometime between trying to kill him in the Arctic and running into him this morning, Simmons developed a crush. Beyond being flattering as hell—seriously, he wasn’t even trying—it’s also something he can use. And he absolutely intends to.

“To my base,” he says, once he’s finished buttoning her shirt. He adjusts her collar so the quickly reddening mark he left on her neck is visible, then gives her a smile. “Where else?”

Her eyes sharpen. “ _Your_  base?”

“Yep.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, watching her face as he lets his touch linger, and barely suppresses a smirk. She’s irritated by it, but she’s not afraid. Good. “I guess SHIELD hasn’t gotten that memo yet, huh?”

“What memo?” she asks.

“HYDRA’s got a new head these days,” he says.

Simmons’ eyes go wide as realization dawns. “Wait,  _you’re_ —oh.” Her eyes drift towards the ceiling thoughtfully. “That explains quite a bit.”

“Really?” he asks. That’s not really the reaction he was expecting, to be honest. “Like what?”

“Like why it chose you.”

He’s getting the sudden, prickling feeling at the nape of his neck that means there’s something more going on here than he’s realized. He does a quick scan of the room, starting with the spot on the ceiling she’s looking at, but there are no visible threats.

“Like why  _what_  chose me?” he asks, hand on his gun.

She slides her free hand up his chest and fists her hand in his collar. He lets her tug him down, but keeps his senses on high alert as he does so. There’s no one else in the room and Simmons isn’t a threat, but his instincts are  _screaming_  at him that something’s up.

“The truth,” she breathes, and kisses him again.

With regret, he breaks it after only a few seconds; kissing as a distraction is a classic for a reason, and that reason is the fact that it’s so easy to be distracted by a kiss. He can’t allow himself to be distracted right now.

“The truth about what?” he asks, easing back out of her reach.

She beams at him. “Everything.”

That explains…absolutely nothing, but before he can press her any further, his comm activates.

“Sir?” Markham says. “We’re ready to move.”

Looking at Simmons’ bright smile and thinking of her words, he makes a snap decision. He’s not ready to bring her into the heart of his operation—not before he gets some real answers.

“Go,” he orders. “But leave Hicks. And Repin,” he adds after a second, remembering the phone he saw in Simmons’ pack. “We’ll catch up.”

Markham, loyal and intelligent second that he is, doesn’t ask any questions. “Understood, sir.”

“I’m in the basement,” he says. “2B. Send them my way.”

“Yes, sir,” Markham says, and Grant mutes his comm.

“Now,” he says, crossing his arms as he considers Simmons. “What do I need to do to get a straight answer out of you?”

He means it as a threat, but the way she bites her lip looks nothing like fear. Neither does the way she rolls her shoulders as she leans back against the wall.

“Oh,” she says, giving him a very slow once-over. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

The look she aims at him from under her lashes leaves no doubt as to her meaning, and he has to smile.

He’s pretty sure this is a trap, but it’s a hell of an interesting one.

He might just have to risk it.


	69. (you turned around and) you stole my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Thief** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.

Warm barrel of a gun pressed to one temple, heart hammering fit to wake the dead, Jemma is experiencing some incredibly poorly-timed desire. She blames this mostly on the rush of adrenaline, but must admit that a good portion of it can be laid at the feet of the man holding the gun—and, more relevantly, holding  _her_.

His arm around her waist is solid and warm, as is his chest at her back. When he speaks, she feels his voice all the way down to her toes, and it sparks a curl of heat in her gut.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Jemma,” she says—squeaks, really.

“Nice to meet you, Jemma,” he says, hand flexing on her hip. Her mouth goes dry, and it is most certainly not from fear. “I’m Grant.”

“Sir,” the security guard—elderly, out of shape, and not at all prepared to handle a robbery, if Jemma’s any judge at all—says. “Let her go, okay? There’s no need to turn to violence.”

“You know,” Grant sighs, “I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to. Then you had to go and hit the silent alarm, and there went the chances of a peaceful ending.” She feels him shrug as the guard, who apparently didn’t realize his move for the silent alarm was so obvious, pales. “What can you do? But I hope you keep in mind that anything that happens to Jemma, here, is your fault.”

“Now, there’s no call for that,” the guard says, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “I—I did hit the alarm, I’ll admit it. But the cops aren’t here yet, and you have what you came for. So why don’t you let her go and get out of here, huh?”

Jemma flinches as Grant cocks the gun—so close to her ear, the sound is unbearably loud—and the guard, who’s been inching closer as he speaks, freezes in his tracks.

“It’s a thought,” Grant says. “Thing is, I was pretty clear in my orders when I came in here, wasn’t I?” He squeezes her hip as the guard stutters. “What do you think, Jemma? Was I clear?”

She swallows. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you remind—” There’s a pause as Grant, presumably, checks the guard’s nametag. Jemma can’t see it from here, but Grant is a good deal taller than her and therefore has a different angle. “—Arthur what I told everyone to do?”

“S-stay down,” she says, cursing herself for the waver in her voice. She hopes it will be attributed to fear, and not the way the hand on her hip has inched up to rest on the bare skin beneath her shirt. The warmth of his touch sears through her, and were she not worried that the motion would startle him into shooting her, she might hit herself in the face.

This is the  _worst_  possible time for this. What is  _wrong_  with her?

“Don’t move,” she continues. “Stay quiet. Don’t try anything.”

“Or what?” Grant prompts.

“Or…you’ll kill us all,” she says.

One of the customers still on the ground whimpers.

“Good girl.” He kisses her temple, the gun at the other never wavering. “Did you hear that, Arthur? Jemma remembered my orders. And she was following them, too. Stayed right there on the ground where she was supposed to be—until you went and disobeyed me and left me needing a hostage.”

“You don’t need a hostage,” Arthur says hastily. “Sir, if you leave now, you can get away fine. But  _only_  if you leave now. If you stay to kill us, you’ll be caught for sure.”

“Hmm.” Grant’s fingers drum on her skin. “That’s a thought. What do you think, Jemma?”

“Um,” she swallows. “I—I think that stand-offs with the police very rarely end well for anyone, jewel thieves included.”

He chuckles, and she bites her lip at the way it thrums through her.

“That’s a very practical way of looking at it,” he says.

“I’m a very practical sort of person.”

“Apparently,” he says. He’s silent for a moment, drumming his fingers again, and then he…well, she doesn’t know the technical term, but he does  _something_  to his gun that makes Arthur relax very slightly. “It’s your lucky day, Arthur; I know good advice when I hear it, so I’m gonna spare your lives.”

The breath shudders out of Arthur. “That’s a very smart move, sir.”

“But,” Grant adds, and Jemma lets out a shuddering breath of her own as the gun suddenly leaves her temple to point at Arthur instead. The arm around her waist tightens. “I can’t let the silent alarm thing slide. Cops might be slow in this town, but sooner or later they get where they’re going. So I think some insurance is in order.”

“…Insurance?” Arthur asks.

“What do you think, Jem?” Grant asks, dipping his head to speak directly to her. His lips brush her ear, and heat jolts straight to her core. “You feel like taking a field trip with a thief?”

“Not—not particularly,” she says.

He grins against her cheek. “Too bad it’s not up to you, then. Come on.”

“Wait,” Arthur starts, and Grant waves the gun at him.

“I can kill you and her both before you can stop me,” he says plainly. “Then I’ll just grab someone else to use as a hostage. That really how you wanna leave this world? Getting yourself and someone else killed?”

The door closes on Arthur’s helpless expression as Jemma is dragged out of the jewelry store.

She’s not dragged very far, though—merely to a truck parked three stores down. The gun has disappeared into Grant’s jacket, and his grip has shifted from an arm around her waist to a hand around her upper arm.

“Get in,” he orders, opening the passenger side door, and she scrambles to obey.

She buckles her seatbelt with shaking hands as he rounds the car and takes the driver’s seat, and she’s barely gotten it clicked into place when he peels away from the curb. For a few moments, they travel in silence as he keeps an eye on the mirrors for any sign of police and she tries to calm her heartbeat.

Then he laughs as they pull into a parking structure less than two miles from the store.

“Well,” he says, throwing the car into park, “That was fun.” He gives her a smirk. “Who would’ve guessed hostage situations get you going?”

She thumps him on the arm. “You did that on  _purpose_ , you prat!”

“What, turned you on in the middle of a job?” He smiles angelically. “Now does that sound like me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, and moves to hit him again.

He catches her hand before she can, however, and kisses her knuckles gently.

“I’ll make it up to you, baby,” he says, and there’s a promise in his grin that makes her shiver.

She leans over to kiss him once, swiftly, and pulls back before he can deepen it.

“You will,” she agrees. “And next time?  _You’re_  playing the hostage.”


	70. "I will shoot you with this water gun"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the-certified-cabinet asked: ""I love you, but I will shoot you with this water gun if you don't calm down.""

“ _Mum_!” James gasps, all wounded teenage dignity, and Jemma waves the water gun at him pointedly.

“I mean it,” she warns. “It’s fully armed and the safety is off. Proceed at your own peril.”

Grant laughs under his breath and turns away from the grill long enough to kiss her swiftly.

“I love it when you talk guns,” he says, over James’ dramatic protests at the, quote,  _traumatizing PDA_.

“I know you do, darling,” she says, going on her toes to kiss his cheek. “That’s why I do it so often.”

“We’ll get you a real one, one of these days,” he says, returning his attention to the grill. “Maybe for our next anniversary.”

“Oh, be still my heart,” she says, laughing, and James makes an anguished noise.

“Stop it!” he demands. “Stop flirting! My  _friends_  are right here, they’re gonna  _see_ –gah!”

He breaks off, sputtering, as a spray of cold water hits him right in the face, and dodges around the end of the patio table to get out of the way.

“Mum!” he whines, shoving his wet hair out of his eyes.

“I warned you,” she says, patting the water gun happily. “Now, go change your shirt–it’s soaked through!”


	71. Asking for help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence fic that got out of control.

_ilosttrackofthings asked: Damn. He really hates asking for help._

Unfortunately, he doesn’t really have a choice. Simmons has already had to re-do his stitches twice, and the second time, she threatened to shoot him if she has to do it again. And considering how irritable everyone’s been lately, there’s a good chance she’ll actually try it–which’ll mean he’ll have to stop her, and then things will just get messy.

Better to avoid it all, so he needs to cover his stitches before he showers. But thanks to their inconvenient location between his shoulder blades–exactly where he can’t reach without causing agony to spike in his cracked rib–he needs someone else to do it.

It won’t be his turn in the shower for another thirteen minutes, but he doesn’t want to have to wait a second more than necessary when it finally is his turn, which means it’s time to seek out Simmons.

She’s barely left the lab for the last three days–aside from taking her turn in the cold shower and standing-in-front-of-the-open-fridge rotation–so he heads down to the cargo bay.

In final, conclusive proof that the universe hates them all, the Bus’ AC quit on them pretty much the exact second they landed in the Arabian desert. It’ll be a simple enough fix, but before they can take it to the Hub for repairs, they  _apparently_  need to finish the case that brought them here in the first place.

Everyone is hot, miserable, and agitated. Even Grant has been struggling with his control; Simmons isn’t the only one who’s been contemplating violence. It doesn’t help that she’s not immediately visible when he reaches the lab–he is really in no mood to track her down right now.

After a second, he spots her, spread eagle on the ground behind the center lab table, and he instantly forgets his aggravation as his mouth goes dry.

Outside the Bus, they all have to just suffer through the heat with their layers. Inside it, they have–by unanimous agreement–completely abandoned even the slightest pretense of professionalism. It is just too fucking hot to care about propriety, which means that, for the most part, they’ve been wearing as little as possible. Coulson and Fitz have both been wandering around in undershirts and boxers, Grant himself hasn’t bothered with the undershirt, Skye is literally wearing a bikini today, and May’s unearthed a surprising collection of sundresses.

Simmons, it seems, has landed somewhere between Skye and May. She’s not wearing a bikini, but what she is wearing…

Really tiny shorts, which leave him an  _excellent_  view of her–fucking gorgeous, why does she hide them all the time?–legs, and the thinnest tank top he’s ever seen–thin enough that it’s basically transparent under the bright lights of the lab. 

And she’s not wearing a bra.

Fuck.

Now struggling with his control in a completely different way, he takes a few seconds to breathe through his initial reaction. It’s way too hot for sex and, more importantly, he’s already got plans to let things become intimate with May. His cover is more important than his personal desires–which means that, as much as he’d like to, he can’t join Simmons on the floor and peel her out of what little she’s wearing.

He also can’t let her see how much the sight of her has affected him. It’s tempting to just go back upstairs, but while he’s willing to sacrifice acting on the many, many thoughts that have just come to mind for the sake of his cover, he’s  _not_  willing to sacrifice a cold shower. 

So he stays and, once he has himself under control, clears his throat. “Simmons?”

“Ward,” she says, without opening her eyes. “I swear, if you’ve torn your stitches  _again_ –”

“I haven’t,” he interrupts. “They’re fine.”

“Oh,” she says, deflating a little. “Good.” She opens her eyes and pushes herself into a sitting position, raking her hair away from her face. “What do you need, then?”

“Help covering them,” he says. “It’s about to be my turn in the shower.”

Her cheeks are already flushed from the heat, but he doesn’t think it’s his imagination that they get a little pinker as her eyes drift away from him. He’s pretty sure she’s having some thoughts about him and showers–probably the same kind of thoughts he’s having about  _her_  and showers–and part of him is smug.

The rest of him is mostly irritated that he can’t follow through on those thoughts, so he just raises his eyebrows expectantly instead of saying anything.

“Yes, of course,” she says, and gets hurriedly to her feet. “Take a seat.”

He accepts the indicated stool and watches as she fetches her medical kit. It’s in one of the upper cabinets, high enough that she has to stretch for it, and from this angle…

Fuck.

He tears his eyes away from the outline of her breasts and focuses on the floor instead, trying to think chaste thoughts. Usually he’s got excellent mental discipline, but it’s failing him right now–and remembering the way she was spread out on the floor when he walked in isn’t helping.

“Is the floor really that much cooler?” he asks, mostly to distract himself.

“Hm?” She sets the kit on the table next to him and twists to follow his gaze. “Oh. A little, yes–though, of course, cooler is very much a relative term.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Tell me about it.” He clenches his hands around the sides of the stool as he feels the first brush of her fingers against his back; the contact sets his own fingers to itching with the urge to touch her, but it also reminds him of just why he’s not going to.

It’s way too hot for this shit.

“Are we nearly done with this mission, do you think?” she asks, a little wistfully.

“I hope so,” he says. “Another day of this and I’m killing Coulson and hijacking the Bus back to the Hub myself.”

She laughs, and he thinks it’s probably better if he doesn’t tell her he’s not joking. Actually, it’s probably better if he doesn’t speak at all; the way her hands feel smoothing what must be the standard water-proof bandage over his stitches has him  _really_  tempted to invite her to join him for his shower.

Cold shower, he reminds himself. He wants a cold shower.

And fuck, does he ever need one.


	72. "He was quite fixated on your bosom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence fic that got out of control.

_safelycapricious asked: "He was quite fixated on your bosom."_

“Was he?” Jemma asks airily. “I didn’t notice.”

“No?” Fitz asks, crossing his arms. 

“No,” she says.

“Okay, so,” Skye rests her chin on her fist. “The way you kept leaning forward, that wasn’t to give him a better view down your dress?”

“Of  _course_  not,” Jemma says. Her voice cracks a bit in the middle; she hopes they’ll attribute it to outrage at the suggestion. “I would never!”

“It was just, what, a back ache?” Skye asks archly.

“Yes.”

Fitz throws his hands up. “It was  _not_!” He jabs a finger at her, accusing, “You were leaning  _with intent_!”

“ _So_  much intent,” Skye agrees.

“There was no intent,” Jemma insists. “You’re delusional, the pair of you.”

“We are  _not_  delusional,” Fitz says, “ _You_  are suffering from a horrible infatuation with the president’s son!”

He says the last three words with the same tone one might say  _a diseased rat._

“I am suffering no such thing,” she says, “And even if I were, it would be none of your business!”

“Ah-ha!” Skye points at her. “So you admit it!”

“No, I don’t,” she says, and then points to Fitz. “And I think we should be addressing him, instead–my bosom, Fitz? Really?”

Fitz frowns at her. “Don’t change the subject, Simmons.”

“Yeah, you’re not getting out of this that easy,” Skye says, “Although we’re gonna revisit that, too, don’t worry, ‘cause that was ridiculous, Fitz.”

“Extremely ridiculous,” Jemma agrees. “What is this, some sort of–”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Skye says. “Stay on topic! You, Grant Ward, your admittedly spectacular cleavage–spill!”

“There’s nothing to spill,” Jemma says, and busies herself with taking off her incredibly strappy shoes. It’s something of an involved process, and allows her to avoid eye contact as she continues, “We had a simple conversation, that’s all.”

“ _And_  a dance,” Fitz says, severely, as though dancing is some great crime.

“Two of them, even,” Skye adds. “Although that second one was more vertical sex than dancing, if you ask me.”

“Oh, it was  _not_ ,” she says, “Don’t be ridiculous, Skye. He was a perfect gentleman.” 

“Oh, sure, maybe his hands stayed above the waist, but you can  _not_  tell me he wasn’t giving you some serious bedroom eyes,” Skye says. “Hell, even  _I_  was blushing.”

Jemma’s saved from having to find a reasonable response to that by the sudden chime of her phone. Before she can reach for it, however, Fitz snatches it up off the table. Upon unlocking it, he gives a great gasp, more suited to making some great scientific discovery than reading her text messages.

“What?” Skye asks. “What is it?”

Fitz clears his throat and then, in a dry yet somehow simultaneously triumphant tone, reads, “Thanks for the dances. Usual time tomorrow?”

“Ha!” Skye exclaims, and Jemma buries her face in her hands. “I  _knew_  it!”

She’s going to  _kill_  him. Either him.  _Both_  hims, even, and likely Skye for good measure.

If she doesn’t die of mortification first, that is.


	73. i don't believe in fairy tales (here we are)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Midnight** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.

“It’s a pumpkin.”

“I can  _see_  that it’s a bloody pumpkin,” Jemma snaps, aiming a kick at said orange frustration. “I don’t know  _what_  you’ve done this time, Ward, but—”

“Okay, wait,” Ward interrupts, laughing. “I’m a pretty talented guy, if I do say so myself, but even I’m not capable of turning a car into a pumpkin.”

“Nobody is capable of that,” she says. “Because it’s  _not possible_.”

“And yet, here we are.” He lays his arms along the back of the bench he’s sitting on, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. He looks very comfortable, and she hates him with a  _passion_. “Stranded on the side of the road with a vegetable where our car used to be.”

“ _My_  car,” Jemma corrects, a little glumly. She’s only just bought it, too, and she doesn’t think her insurance—which is under a false name, in any case—covers sudden pumpkinification. “And a pumpkin is a fruit, not a vegetable.”

“Huh. Really?”

“It’s a member of the family Cucurbitaceae,” she says. “Like melons.” She kicks it again. “But regardless of its classification, it’s still not getting us to the Playground—or anywhere else, for that matter. We’re stuck.”

“No cell phone?” Ward asks.

“It was in the cup-holder.” She crouches in front of the pumpkin, poking it cautiously. “Perhaps if I cut it open…”

He laughs. “That pumpkin’s a hell of a lot smaller than your car, Jemma. If your phone’s still in there, it’s probably tiny.”

“Well,” she huffs, standing. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself, you berk.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You don’t think this is funny? Your car turned into a  _pumpkin_  at  _midnight_.” He grins. “Should I be calling you Cinderella?”

“Shut up.”

“Shame you kept your clothes,” he muses, and she turns her back on him, stalking away to hide the blush his intent gaze causes. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this,” she says over her shoulder. “However, I don’t imagine I’m going to discover it on the side of the road in the middle of the night. We passed a petrol station a few miles back; I’ll use their phone and call SHIELD. You stay here and guard the…pumpkin.”

“Really?” he asks, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at finding him suddenly behind her.

“Stop  _doing_  that,” she orders, pressing a hand to her racing heart. That’s the third time tonight he’s snuck up on her, and the next time he does it she might well shoot him, orders be damned. “And yes, really. Or were you intending to spend the rest of the night sitting there, hoping the car would reappear?”

“I’m not arguing your plan,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m questioning the idea to leave me behind.”

“Well, I can’t let  _you_  make the call,” she says reasonably, with only a tiny smidgeon of derision. “You’d probably call in HYDRA, not SHIELD.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he nods. “And leaving aside the fact that HYDRA’s the much better option, as my men are a hundred times more competent on their worst day than any of SHIELD’s on their best, my issue was with the fact that you’re planning to walk several miles in the dark, alone. It’s dangerous.”

It’s Jemma’s turn to laugh, and she does. She laughs so hard, in fact, that she has to stop walking and grab a visibly amused Ward’s arm for balance as she bends nearly double with the force of it.

“You okay there, Cinderella?” he asks, and even that can’t douse her hilarity.

“As though there’s  _anything_  more dangerous than being stuck with  _you_  in the middle of nowhere,” she manages to wheeze around her laughter. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Really?” he asks again. “Your car just turned into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight, and  _that’s_  the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?”

She laughs harder. “My car  _did_  turn into a pumpkin! I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere with a man I hate more than anyone, and my car’s a bloody pumpkin!”

She thinks, a bit distantly, that her laughter is beginning to take on an edge of hysteria, and Ward obviously agrees.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, and helps her to sit on the curb. “Take a deep breath or two. You’re fine.”

“I’m not your sweetheart,” she informs him—but she makes no move to knock away his hand as it rubs soothingly across her back. “And I don’t need  _you_  to tell me I’m fine.”

“Of course not,” he agrees.

“In fact, that you say so only makes me doubt it,” she feels compelled to add. “Perhaps I’m dying of some terrible disease.”

“Always a possibility,” he says placidly.

The deep breathing is helping; the tide of hysteria begins to recede, and her head clears quickly. This she attributes  _only_  to the deep breathing, and perhaps the crisp night air. It has nothing to do with his hand on her back and his warmth at her side. Nothing at all.

“I can’t believe the car turned into a pumpkin,” she says, cradling her head in her hands. “I hate working for SHIELD, I really do. I’ll bet this sort of thing never happens to the biochemists at the Briarwood Institute.”

“Probably not,” he says. He’s stopped rubbing her back, but he leaves his hand where it is, warm between her shoulder blades. “Unless they’ve got a fairy godmother with a grudge.”

She rubs her temples.

“Do  _you_  have a fairy godmother with a grudge, by the way?” he asks. “Just out of curiosity.”

“If I had a fairy godmother,” she says, “You’d have been turned into a toad ages ago.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

They fall into silence for a few long moments. Ward’s still pressed right up against Jemma’s side, close enough that she can smell his cologne. It’s the same one he wore when they were dating (only off-mission, of course; apparently a single drop of cologne can get a man killed in the field, or so he always claimed), and the scent of it fills her with a strange sense of longing.

Of all the things that might carry over between the lie and the real man, taste in cologne wouldn’t have been her choice.

But there’s something comforting about it, about his cologne and his warmth and his hand on her back. This close, he could kill her before she even knew he meant to, but she’s not afraid at all.

That, in itself, is terrifying.

“So,” he says eventually. “You know how I agreed not to bring a phone with me, as part of the deal? And how I very publicly handed mine over to Markham before we left?”

She closes her eyes. “You brought another, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” he says, and kisses her temple. For whatever reason, she doesn’t lean away. “The whole honest man thing is a work in progress.”

She opens her eyes to stare at him, incredulous. “You’re the head of HYDRA.”

“A very  _slow_  work in progress,” he amends. “Anyway, back to the point, which is that I’m gonna call my men in, now. You want a lift?”

She hesitates. Ward grins.

“We’ll drop you off at the Playground,” he says. “Promise.”

She notes the absence of any indicator of  _when_  or what state she’ll be in when said dropping off occurs, but it’s been such an absurd night that she can’t bring herself to press the issue. So she simply nods.

“Yes please,” she says. “And ask them to bring a containment unit. I’d like to bring the pumpkin along.”

“Sure thing, Cinderella,” he says. His hand falls away from her back, only to be replaced by his arm around her shoulders seconds later, even as he fishes a phone out of his jacket with his other hand. “Here’s hoping it doesn’t turn back into a car mid-flight.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “That would be unfortunate.”


	74. chasing those lies: 48 hours later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sapphireglyphs asked: "Time stamp: chasing from lies (you spend it all) 48 hours later. Please and thank you!! ❤️"
> 
> [chasing those lies (you spend it all)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3982012). You might want to read that first.

“Oh, hey! You must be the new neighbor!”

Jemma’s not usually given to swearing, but at the cheery statement, she’s forced to bite her tongue to hold back on it. She takes a moment to remind herself of her cover—Claire Lynch, 25, happily married medical student—and then turns around with a smile.

“Yes,” she says, shifting the paper grocery bag she’s holding (Claire is semi-conscious of the environment; enough so that she never uses plastic, but not so much that she’s willing to go to the effort of bringing cloth bags with her to the store) higher on her hip. “Hello!”

“Pierce Foley,” the man who addressed her says, offering a little wave and a wide smile. “I live in 4C.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. “I’m Claire Lynch. I’m in 4B—but then, I suppose you knew that.”

“I did,” he agrees. “And I’ve gotta say, it’s a relief.”

She blinks. “That I moved in?”

“Well, no,” he says, then grimaces. “I mean, not that you—I mean, I’m sure you’re perfectly nice! It’s just the guy that used to be in there was such an asshole, it’s a relief to be rid of him.”

“I see,” she says, not entirely certain what to say to such a statement. “Um—”

“So, you’re British, huh?” Pierce asks, apparently not noticing—or merely ignoring—the awkward pause. “What brings you to America?”

“School,” she says, and stops herself there. She’s actually practiced this answer, as the  _why are you here_  question is one she’s heard quite a bit over her decade in this country, and she knew she’d be getting it as Claire, as well. So, while she knows exactly why Claire chose to study medicine in the United States instead of in England, as well as how old she was when she came over, the exact process by which she was accepted into Georgetown University, and more, she leaves it at, “I’m studying medicine at Georgetown.”

“Wow,” he says, with a low whistle. “Georgetown, huh? You must be some kind of genius.”

Jemma laughs a touch nervously. “Oh, no—no, I simply test well. That’s all.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, holding back on the rest of the nervous babble that wants to spill out. She’s sure Pierce meant it in the colloquial sense, but Jemma is a  _literal_  genius, currently undercover as an average person, and she finds the term makes her anxious.

“Still, you gotta be smart to make it in Georgetown,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

“Well.” She shifts her grocery bag again. “Thank you, then.”

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “Here I am just talking away at you, keeping you in the lobby while you’ve got groceries. You want me to carry that upstairs for you?”

“Oh, no thank you,” she says, smiling (in relief—it sounds as though she’s about to be able to extract herself from this conversation). “I have it.”

“You su—”

Jemma frowns as Pierce stops talking abruptly. His eyes have widened noticeably, and she’s about to ask after his health when she’s surprised by the sudden press of a warm, solid chest against her back. At the same time, a pair of hands comes to rest on her hips, and—recognizing the feel of the splint on the left one—she forces herself to relax back against Ward.

Tyler. His name is Tyler, he’s her husband, and there’s no reason such simple contact should leave a blush building at the base of her throat.

She tips her head back to look at him, and the greeting she intended dies on her lips as soon as she sees his face. She’s never seen him wear the expression he’s aiming at Pierce, but it’s terrifying. She’s impressed by their poor neighbor’s courage; if anyone— _especially_  a man as large and well-trained as Ward—looked at her that way, she’d run as fast as she could in the other direction.

She reminds herself that Ward is playing a role, just as she is, and that that role isn’t nice man. Presumably he’s using this opportunity to establish his cover with their neighbors—and even if she’s wrong, she trusts him. She knows she has nothing to fear from him.

“Tyler?” she prompts gently, and Ward squeezes her hips.

“New friend?” he asks, without taking his eyes off of Pierce.

“Yes,” she says. It takes her a moment to remember her manners; between the surprise of his presence, the look on his face, and the warmth of his body (she’s never before been so conscious of the way he dwarfs her), she’s a touch flustered. “This is Pierce Foley. He lives next door. Pierce, this is my husband, Tyler.”

“Uh, hey,” Pierce says, rallying. Jemma is even more impressed; Ward’s glare doubles. “Hey, man. How you doing?”

“I’d be better if you weren’t harassing my wife,” Ward says flatly. “Get lost.”

“Tyler!” Jemma exclaims, shocked. “He is not  _harassing_  me; don’t be ridiculous!”

She turns to Pierce, intending to apologize, and finds him backing away swiftly.

“No, it’s cool,” he assures her. “It’s a fair point, and I—I was just going, anyway. Gonna be late. See you around!”

It comes out of him all in a rush, and—apparently thoroughly petrified—he disappears through the outer door before he even finishes the final word.

There’s a pause. Jemma is so terribly aware of Ward—the steady beat of his heart against her back, the gentle pressure of his hands on her hips, the warmth of his body—that she’s left feeling off-balance as he releases her and steps back. She turns to face him, but before she can speak, he plucks the bag out of her hands.

“Let me take that for you,” he says, tone making it clear he won’t accept any argument.

She offers one anyway. “You’re injured.”

“I’m not  _that_  injured,” he says, and gestures towards the lift. “After you.”

“Are you  _honestly_  going to pretend you didn’t just scare off one of our neighbors for no reason whatsoever?” she asks, frowning up at him.

“He was flirting with you,” he says, frowning back. “He’s lucky all I did was scare him.”

There’s something thrilling about the implied threat—or perhaps merely the tone that accompanies it—and it takes Jemma a moment to gather a response. (She might be in a touch of trouble when it comes to Ward, but—no. No, she’s not thinking about it.)

“He was  _not_.”

“Trust me, he was,” Ward says, still in that dark tone. “And if he does it again, I’m gonna break him.”

The words take her aback, but she reminds herself once more that he’s undercover—as is she, in fact, and Claire is very accustomed to this sort of behavior from him. So she forces away her shock and, when she frowns at him again, makes certain to keep it more exasperated than truly angry.

“You just scared that poor man into running out into the snow without a jacket,” she points out. “I sincerely doubt he’ll ever make eye contact again, let alone speak to me!”

“Good,” Ward says, satisfied, and motions again to the lift. “Now, unless you really wanna spend all night in the lobby?”

She rolls her eyes, but allows herself to be steered into the lift.

“Will you at least try not to traumatize  _all_  of our neighbors?” she asks, somewhat plaintively. Claire, she thinks, is a bit endeared by his tendency to overreact to such situations—she wouldn’t have married him if she didn’t like it at least a little—but for her part, as much as it would simplify keeping her cover, Jemma would prefer not to have everyone in the building run away at the sight of her.

Ward grins down at her. “No promises.”

“Tyler…”

The lift dings as the doors open on their floor, and her breath catches as he kisses her temple.

“It’s why you love me,” he says, and steps into the corridor, leaving her speechless.

She is  _definitely_  in trouble.


	75. what happens next: methods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: "DVD commentary D for "put the knife right in my back" chapter 7. Please and thank you!"
> 
> D. Send me the name of any fanfic I’ve written and I’ll tell you something about what I think happens after the fic is done.
> 
> [put the knife right in my back (killing any history we had): methods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3838735/chapters/8570203). You might wanna read that first.

It’s a good kiss—better than he would’ve expected, if he ever gave more than half a second’s thought to kissing Simmons—but it’s not enough to make Grant forget their surroundings, so he absolutely hears Skye coming.

It is good enough that he pretends not to, though—that he lets it draw out, enjoys the heat of her mouth and the sting of her nails in his scalp, until Skye physically yanks him away. He could ignore it—she’s gotten better over the last year, but not  _that_  much better; she’s not moving him if he doesn’t want to be moved—but they  _are_  in the middle of enemy territory on a pretty important op, so he allows himself to be dragged back.

“What the  _hell_ , you creep!” Skye demands, letting go of him at once. “Like your freaky obsession with _me_  wasn’t bad enough, now you’re gonna harass my friends?”

“I wasn’t harassing her, I was helping her,” he says, impatiently, as Simmons sinks into a nearby chair. There’s a flush high on her cheeks, but she’s pale beneath it, and he keeps an eye on her, a little concerned that she’s about to faint. “And what obsession? Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’ve moved on.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Skye says, giving him a dirty look. “So what’s your girlfriend gonna think about you kissing Simmons?”

He pauses.

Kara’s gonna be horrified. Not about the kissing—she won’t be happy, at first, but she’ll understand once he explains. No, she’s gonna be horrified about the brainwashing. She’s kind of got a (very understandable) thing about it; Bakshi was revenge, but another innocent SHIELD agent suffering the same thing she did?

She’ll be upset. She’ll wanna help Simmons.

It’ll work pretty nicely into their plans, actually. Kara’ll have to do some adjusting to get Simmons off-base along with Morse, but she’s smart and quick on her feet. She’ll figure it out.

It’s just a matter of letting her know it’s necessary, and—while actually contacting her is out, since he’s gonna be making the  _leaving her for her own good_  play for Coulson’s benefit—that’s totally doable.

“Kara doesn’t need to know about this,” he says, shading his voice with just enough threat to get Skye’s back up. She’ll tell Kara out of pure spite—justifying it, of course, as saving Kara from his evil influence, or something like that. “Simmons was about to hyperventilate, and I shocked her out of it. That’s all.”

“You—”

“Skye,” Simmons interrupts. “This isn’t the time.” She’s still pretty pale, but she’s steady on her feet when she stands. “And we have larger concerns.”

“Are you okay?” Skye asks, hurrying over to her. Bakshi’s still on the floor, trying to staunch the bleeding from the bullet Grant put in him, and she stomps on his foot as she passes him with a hissed, “Bastard.”

“Fine,” Simmons says, accepting Skye’s quick hug. Her eyes meet Grant’s over Skye’s shoulder, then quickly slide away. “Aside from being apparently brainwashed, that is.”

“It’s okay,” Skye says. She steps back, but keeps her hands on Simmons’ shoulders. “We can totally fix it.”

Simmons looks away.

“…Right?” Skye asks.

Simmons gives her a smile. “I’ll figure something out, I’m sure.”

Her voice is steady and her smile is just as bright as always. She’s gotten much better at lying in the last year; if Grant couldn’t see the way her hands shake as she turns away to disconnect her flash drive from the lab’s computer, he would absolutely believe that she’s calm.

But he  _can_  see it, so he pats her shoulder reassuringly as he passes her on his way to restrain Bakshi. (He did promise Kara she could kill him, so he’ll bring him along when he leaves, maybe test out the facility they’ve got prepared for Morse on him. It never hurts to do a practice run before the main event, after all.)

The contact has the extra benefit of irritating Skye, who gives him a dirty look before turning back to Simmons.

“We should go,” Simmons says before she can speak. “We still need to find Agent Peterson and your friend.”

“Right,” Skye says, and glares at Grant. “You can take point—and keep your creepy hands to yourself.”

“Sure thing,” Grant agrees easily as he finishes securing Bakshi to the desk. He pats him on the cheek. “Wait here. We’ll be back for  _you_  later.”

Bakshi’s eyes are wide with terror—sensible of him—but the gag keeps him from begging or bargaining.

Grant stands, but he only manages two steps toward the door before Skye is in front of him, scowling up at him with more hate than he’s seen since he took her off the Bus in December.

“I mean it,” she says. “You and your murdering, stalking, HYDRA-loving ways need to stay the fuck away from Jemma.”

Speaking of December, if she’d said something like that to him then, he would’ve taken it for jealousy, and he would’ve been overjoyed. Now, he’s just amused (okay, he’s kind of overjoyed, too, but that’s just because it’s more proof he’s moved on from her).

He looks past her to Simmons, who’s staring at nothing, fingers resting lightly against her lips. Even as he watches, she gives herself a shake, pulling her hand away from her mouth and staring at it like it’s betrayed her.

He grins to himself and returns his attention to Skye, who’s still scowling.

“Whatever you say,” he says lightly.

He can afford to keep his distance for the rest of this op. They’ll have plenty of time to catch up later.


	76. opposing sides: what happens next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Can I request 'd' for your opposing sides AU?"
> 
> Note: as requested, this is a follow-up to the [opposing sides au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/5558252). You might wanna read that first.

Jemma hears the door open.

She hears everything. The click of the lock, the tread of Ward’s boots as he crosses the room, his quiet sigh as he sees that her food hasn’t been touched.

It’s interesting, how pain tunes the senses. After weeks of torture, it’s impossible to draw her attention back to herself—to pull herself off the edge of fear, to turn off the heightened awareness brought on by terror. She’s been told that she won’t be hurt again, but she simply can’t stop listening for the return of her tormentor.

She’s been dreading it. But she thinks she’d prefer him over her current company.

She hears him walk up behind her, but she doesn’t turn away from the window. She remains tense and motionless as his hands slide over her hips, grip her gently, and tug her back against his chest.

He’s warm, and she’s been cold for ages. The chill has sunk into her very bones, and nothing—not the boiling hot shower she took earlier, not the new clothes, not standing in the sunlight the window offers—has done anything to ease it.

It’s tempting to sink into him, to match his body heat against her frozen heart, but she resists the urge. She’s made too many concessions already.

“You didn’t eat your lunch,” he murmurs. His hands shift a little higher, thumbs slipping under her shirt to rest against her bare skin, and she tells herself she doesn’t enjoy the contact—any more than she appreciates the care he takes to avoid the electrical burns along her side.

Her throat is still raw and his statement is blindingly obvious, so she doesn’t answer. Wards tsks and rests his cheek against her temple.

“You’re not gonna get any better by starving yourself,” he says. “You need to keep your strength up.”

_That_  she cannot ignore.

“And whose fault is that?” she rasps. Speaking is painful, but the way he tenses behind her eases the sting a little. “I wouldn’t need to get better if—”

“If you’d just given in weeks ago,” he interrupts, grip tightening slightly. “I told you not to resist, baby. You could’ve spared yourself a lot of pain.”

The contrast between the endearment and the lack of remorse makes her heart twist, but not nearly so much as the reminder of what’s brought her here does.

She gave in.

It’s been more than a month since the mission that saw Jemma and Agent Singh captured by HYDRA. She doesn’t know what became of Agent Singh, but for herself, Jemma has spent the intervening weeks being tortured near-endlessly. HYDRA wanted intel, wanted answers, wanted  _obedience_.

She held out for as long as she could, but today—this morning—she gave in. The shame tightens her chest, punctures her lungs—makes breathing nearly as impossible as waterboarding did.

But what choice did she have? She couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Part of her knows she should have—that Skye, that Trip, that Coulson and May and  _Fitz_  would’ve held out. Would’ve chosen death over serving HYDRA— _did_  choose death over serving HYDRA, in several cases.

But she’s only human, and she has her limits. And it seems that here, in the end, she’s just not strong enough to withstand torture indefinitely.

Not that her torture has ended, as yet. As soon as she gave in—surrendered to her torturer and promised loyalty—she was brought here, to Ward’s rooms.

He’s stayed close ever since—hovered nearby while the HYDRA medic treated her various wounds, waited outside as she showered, helped her dress in clothes he had waiting for her. And it’s not exaggerating to say that he’s just as painful as her broken arm. The sheer presence of him, the way he keeps touching her, his tenderness…

She won’t say it’s been worse than torture, because it hasn’t. But it  _has_  been awful.

She expected to be brought to a lab when she swore allegiance to HYDRA. She’s not sure what to make of being taken to Ward, instead.

One of his hands slips up under her shirt, sliding to rest against her stomach as his other arm wraps around her waist, and she suppresses a shudder. He’s so  _warm_.

And, though she hates him terribly—hates him with everything she is—her body, it seems, hasn’t forgotten the pleasure he brought her so often and so well. She’d like to claim his touch makes her skin crawl, but it’s exactly the opposite.

“You’ll feel better if you eat,” Ward says, voice softening again. “I know it doesn’t look too appetizing, but you’ve gotta build back up to real food slowly or you’ll make yourself sick.”

She closes her eyes. She’d like to say she doesn’t  _want_  to feel better, but it would be a lie. A noble one, perhaps, but still a lie. She’s not strong enough to deliberately suffer any longer.

So instead she asks, “Why am I here?”

“SOP,” he says, casually. “New recruits always spend a few weeks under observation. Gives ‘em a chance to recover—and us the chance to make sure their change of heart is sincere.”

It makes a horrible sort of sense, she supposes. Emphasis on horrible. She wonders, distantly, just how many people HYDRA tortures into obedience on a regular basis, that they’ve outlined a standard procedure for it.

“Weeks?” she asks—croaks, really. Talking, however little of it she’s doing, isn’t helping her throat at all.

“Or more.” His arm tightens around her waist, and she realizes, with an awful sort of resignation, that at some point she’s relaxed back against him. “You’re pretty high up on the list of security risks. Might be months. Usually you’d be with a recruitment operative, but…” He smiles against her temple. “The bosses know about our relationship, so you’re mine.”

She wants to shout at him. They’ve never had a  _relationship_ ; they spent a year sneaking around together in an extended series of one night stands, after which he turned her over to HYDRA to be tortured. That’s all. They’re not a couple, they’re not in love, and she is  _not_  his.

But his warmth is seeping into her and his arms are familiar and his touch, damn him, is comforting. There’s been too much pain in Jemma’s life, of late; all of her resistance has been worn away.

She didn’t shove him away earlier, when he helped her dress, and though she let herself pretend, at the time, that it was practicality—she’s in terrible shape, she can’t get dressed without assistance, and she hardly wants to spend all day in a towel—there was more to it than that.

She hates him. She does. But he offers tenderness where there has been none, and she doesn’t have it in her to refuse him. Not after everything.

Perhaps he senses her surrender, or perhaps he’s just confident enough to know that she will. (She’s already surrendered once today, after all. Is surrendering to this—to him—really that much worse than surrendering to HYDRA?) Either way, she detects a hint of smugness in the kiss he presses to her temple.

“Come sit down, baby,” he says. “Eat your lunch. Then you can sleep for a while.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” she says, but she doesn’t fight as he tugs her away from the window and guides her to the table.

“Yeah, Recruitment warned me about the nightmares,” he says, pulling a chair out for her and then, once she sits, pushing it back in. “But I’ll stay with you. That should help, don’t you think?”

Ward’s hands cup her shoulders, and tears sting at her eyes as she stares down at the utterly unappetizing meal before her.

“Yes,” she says, quietly. “I imagine it will.”


	77. the author in the incentives program

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Prompt: you the author get put in the incentives program by Ward to force you into giving him and Jemma a happy ending."
> 
> (I felt a little weird about this one, so I deliberately made myself OOC to make it less so. Don't read too much into it!)

“We need to talk.”

Grant doesn’t let any of his satisfaction show as his target jumps, clapping a hand to her heart in shock. Instead, he maintains a pleasant smile and pats the bedspread next to him.

“Have a seat,” he invites.

“Uh, no, thank you,” his target says, offering an uneasy smile as she inches back towards the door. “I just remembered, I have a—”

“Let me rephrase that,” he interrupts, voice sharpening. “Sit down. Now.”

“Okay,” she says weakly. Proving that she’s got at least a  _little_  common sense, she chooses to take the desk chair instead of sitting next to him; the desk is right next to the bed, so all it’ll take to reach her is a minor shift on his part, but at least she’s not dumb enough to put  _herself_  in his reach. “Um. So.”

“So,” he says, leaning back on his hands. “Let’s talk.”

She swallows. “About what?”

“The weather,” he says, flatly. She winces. “What do  _you_  think?”

“Okay, look,” she says, a little shakily. “I know the most recent drabble wasn’t exactly happy, but—”

“Wasn’t exactly happy?” he echoes. She cringes back at his tone, rolling the desk chair a little closer to the wall. She looks like she’s thinking about crawling under the shelf that serves as a desk. “I stood back and let Jemma be tortured for a  _month_ , and all you’ve got to say is that it  _wasn’t exactly happy_?”

He’s wiped out three universes’ worth of HYDRA grunts since she wrote that drabble, but his fingers still itch at the thought of it. As if he would  _ever_  let  _anyone_  hurt Jemma, let alone for so long.

“The ‘verse was already established!” she defends. “You weren’t gonna turn around and  _un_ -hand her over to HYDRA!”

He stares her down, unimpressed.

“Okay,” she says, holding her shaking hands up in placation. “Okay, it wasn’t happy at all. That was my fault. Okay. Um. What about the  _chasing those lies_  drabble? That’s happy! Jemma’s totally into you! And it’s Tyler-you, which is basically the same thing as you-you!”

“Except she  _thinks_  it’s a cover,” he counters. “So how’s she gonna react when she finds out that’s really me?”

She bites her lip. “Um.”

Yeah, that’s about what he thought. He lets his expression speak for itself, and she cringes again.

“Okay, um. This isn’t—I mean, there are happy ‘verses! Like—like—” She looks around the room like she’s expecting help. Her eyes land on a poster of an eagle (a fucking  _creepy_  poster; Grant can’t imagine sleeping in the same room as it) and brighten. “Like the flora and fauna fill! That was happy! You’re going on a road trip—a  _sexy_  road trip! What’s not to like about that?”

Grant scowls. “You made me  _SHIELD_.”

“Well, yeah, but,” she smiles hopefully. “You’re still  _you_. Just—not HYDRA.”

He frowns.

“Okay!” she says, voice going high. “Okay, so you wanna be HYDRA, that’s cool, I can—I can work with that. I can totally make that happen. Um. The  _did I fall asleep_  verse! You’re HYDRA and Jemma—”

“Leaves me,” he cuts in.

“But she comes back!”

“Yeah, and we both know why,” he says. He’s  _seen_  her notes for that particular universe, and he is  _not_ impressed.

“Okay, that’s—that’s fair. Um.” She darts a glance at her closed laptop. “Well, I’ve been working on—”

“You’ve been working on that Bratva shit,” he snaps. “You think I haven’t noticed? You writing for other couples wasn’t part of the deal.”

“No, I know,” she says, a little frantically. “I just—it’s been like a month and my  _Arrow_  followers—they’ve been waiting…”

“Oh, they’ve been waiting,” he says, nodding thoughtfully as she trails off. “And you don’t wanna disappoint them, right? That’s sweet. I’m sure it’ll be a  _lot_  of comfort to your brother when I tell him—sure, he’s gonna die painfully, but at least Amy’s  _Arrow_  followers aren’t disappointed.”

“No!” she says, surging to her feet. Under his raised eyebrow, she quails and sinks back into the chair. “I mean, please, that’s not—you don’t have to hurt him. I’ll write something for you and Jemma, I promise. Something happy, where you’re HYDRA and she’s…um.” She pauses. “Do you want her to be HYDRA?”

“I don’t care,” he says, waving it off. “But I don’t want her brainwashed and I  _don’t_  want her broken.”

He’s getting a little tired of seeing Jemma shattered, pale and fragile and a shadow of her former self. She’s been way too compliant lately—in both senses of the word.

“Right.” Amy chews on her thumbnail. “Right. I can make that happen. I can  _totally_  make that happen.” She reaches for her laptop, then pauses. “How do you feel about magic?”

He doesn’t  _mind_  it, exactly, especially since for her, magic usually means making him powerful, but she’s been using it as a crutch, and he’s sick of only getting Jemma after a major universal shift.

“No.”

“Okay, no magic,” she says, sitting back. “No magic, no brainwashing, no broken!Jemma, no sad ending.”

“And no dead brother,” he adds, since she’s looking a little doubtful.

She draws in a deep breath. “Right. Right, that’s the goal. No dead brother.”

“Glad we got that cleared up,” Grant says, and stands. He’s got other stops to make; she’s not the only author who’s been awful to Jemma lately, and he needs to have words with some of the others, so he heads for the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Oh, but—” She flinches as he turns back to look at her. “I, um. I have a final tonight? So I need to…”

She trails off, gesturing vaguely to the drawer he knows holds her textbooks.

“So you need to write fast,” he says. He opens the door without breaking eye contact. “You don’t want me to have to come back, do you?”

“No,” she says, faintly. “No, I don’t.”

“No,” he agrees, and—satisfied that she’s been scared into line—leaves.


	78. five sentence part four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accepted a whole bunch of five-sentence fic prompts--the kind where the prompter provides the first sentence and I write...at least five more. Usually it was a lot more than five, tbh--on my tumblr, and I will be posting them in chunks because there were a lot. So here's part four!
> 
> Once again, this isn't all of the five sentence fills. Several of them got out of control, and will be given their own chapters. Just fyi.

_safelycapricious asked: "Oh shit, that was definitely nyquil."_

“Yes,” Jemma says blandly. “Yes, it was.”

“You just…” Skye gestures helplessly at the picture before them. “You just  _exploded_  them with Nyquil!”

“I did,” Jemma agrees.

Skye mouths wordlessly for a second before finally managing to demand, “ _How_?”

“Nyquil is highly toxic to extraterrestrials,” Jemma says. “Didn’t you know?”

 

 

_azariastromsis asked: For the 5-sentence meme: "Okay, so I lied."_

“Lied?” Ward laughs, a touch incredulously. “I think that’s putting it lightly, don’t you?”

Jemma frowns at him. “It’s not as though  _you’ve_  any room to point fingers, in that regard.”

“True,” he says, leaning back in his seat. It’s odd how out of place he  _doesn’t_  look behind the desk, here in this expansive, intimidating office. “And don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed by your quick thinking. I’m just wondering why, of all possible things, you chose to tell my men that I knocked you up.”

She flushes a little, which is ridiculous. There’s no call to be embarrassed about saving her own life.

“They were going to shoot me,” she says. “And it was obvious that they’re all—sensibly—terrified of you. I had nothing to bribe them with and no hope of convincing them it was all a misunderstanding. Playing on their fear of you—or rather, their fear of what you might do if they shot the mother of your unborn child—seemed the best option.”

“And they believed you,” he says, mostly to himself. “Well, I didn’t hire them for their brains.”

“I don’t know that they believed me,” she offers, in defense of the very courteous men who escorted her to this office, “So much as they believed it was better not to risk it.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Fair enough, I guess. So, as long as I  _didn’t_  get you pregnant…?”

“No!” she says, sharply, in response to his raised eyebrows. Why is he even asking? “We’ve  _never had sex_ , Ward.”

“Would you like to?” he offers innocently.

“ _No_ ,” Jemma scowls.

“Okay, then,” he says, sobering. “In that case, I’m gonna need to know exactly why you broke into my labs.”

Drat. “Um.”

“Um?” he echoes.

“Is that offer for sex still on the table?” she asks hopefully.

 

 

_Anonymous asked: "Don't bleed on my floor!"_

“Really?” Grant frowns. “Two years, and that’s all you’ve got to say to me?”

“And I hate you and you’re a murderer, what are you doing here, et cetera, et cetera,” Simmons says impatiently. “But, really, I just had these floors cleaned. Here, put a towel on that.”

She holds out a dishrag, apparently deadly serious. This is…really not what Grant was expecting when he tracked her down.

“Sorry to inconvenience you with my  _gaping chest wound_ ,” he says, accepting the dishrag. He tries to hold back his reaction to the white-hot pain pressing it to his wound sparks, but he’s out of practice, and a hiss escapes him despite his best efforts.

Simmons is unimpressed. “Oh, please. That’s barely a scratch.”

She’s gotten weirdly blasé since the last time he saw her. He doesn’t know if he likes it or not.

“Are you going to be staying long?” she asks, checking her watch. “Only, I’ve got a date tonight.”

Yeah, no. He doesn’t like it at all.

 

 

_thestarfishdancer asked: "You forgot her birthday, what did you expect?"_

“I did not  _forget_ ,” Grant defends. “I was on assignment!”

“And a phone call would’ve killed you?” Fitz asks, unimpressed.

Considering the fact he was, on Jemma’s birthday, in the process of escaping an enemy compound in which his cover had just been spectacularly blown… “Yes!”

“I might be new here,” Skye says, from where she’s sitting against what remains of a support column. “But I don’t think she cares, dude.”

The three of them turn their attention to Jemma, who’s still fawning over Peterson like he’s her boyfriend—instead of the guy that just threw her  _actual_  boyfriend through half the walls in Union Station.

“Nope,” Fitz agrees…way too cheerfully for a guy who’s supposed to be Grant’s friend. “She definitely doesn’t care.”

Grant watches Jemma with narrowed eyes. If he didn’t have a cover to maintain…

But he  _does_  have a cover to maintain, so he pulls out the kicked puppy look and sulks his way back to the Bus instead of going over there and dealing with the problem.

(Not to say he  _isn’t_  going to deal with the problem. He’s just gonna have to be subtle about it, that’s all.)

 

 

_safelycapricious asked: Her heart was pounding hard enough that she was certain the people in the next room could hear it as her gaze darted around, looking for a way out of this._

“Simmons?” Coulson prompted.

“I…” Jemma sighed. “I can’t.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s possible that I have a slight…history,” she said delicately, “With some of these people.”

The whole team stared.

“With these  _eco-terrorists_?” Fitz asked, clearly taken aback. Whether at the news of her involvement with such unsavory people (he had no idea) or at the fact that there was something of her life he didn’t know was truly anyone’s guess.

Jemma avoided all of their gazes. “Yes.”

“What kind of history?” Coulson asked, brow furrowed.

She winced. She had truly hoped no one would think to ask for clarification—a long shot, but she was, at heart, an optimist.

“Romantic,” she admitted, and bit her lip at the way Grant tensed beside her. “It was a very brief fling! I was in uni and while I know—now—that Nathaniel is a remorseless killer, he’s very attractive.”

The briefing room was dead silent, and she could almost  _hear_  Grant seething. He did get so jealous.

….Something she hadn’t been able to truly take advantage of since beginning their current assignment. And she might as well be hanged for the goose as for the gander, mightn’t she? It would take no end of work to keep the revelation from negatively impacting the others’ opinions of her, and she thought she deserved to get a reward out of it, as well.

“And symmetrical,” she added, and deliberately allowed her eyes to drift away from the team, as if fondly reminiscing. “And flexible. And—”

“Okay!” Skye exclaimed, hands waving in front of her as though to ward off any further speech. “We get it, Simmons. Right? Everyone’s got it?”

“Yeah,” Grant said, voice low. “We got it.”

His tone seemed to put the others on edge, but Jemma had difficulty containing her smile. There was a lovely threat hiding behind it, and she looked forward to seeing him carry it out.

 

 

_Anonymous asked: She would be lyi_ _ng if she said she didn't like it when Grant left marks on her._

Still, there was the team to consider; she was a little old to be going to work covered in love bites and suspiciously placed bruises.

“Grant,” she said breathlessly. “The team—”

She broke off into a gasp as he bit down particularly hard on the swell of her right breast. The pain sizzled into pleasure somewhere along the path to her core, leaving her arching into him, and he smiled against her skin.

“The team,” he said, lifting his head to meet her eyes, “Knows that you belong to me.”

She struggled briefly against his grip on her, desperate for leverage—for more friction than the thigh between hers was providing—but his hold remained firm, and she collapsed back with a whine. (She would be wearing bracelets for  _weeks_  to cover the bruises he was leaving on her wrists, she knew, and just the thought was enough to send a thrill through her.)

“Yes,” she said, “But what they don’t know is that you’re the sort of man who shows it like this. They’ll have questions.”

“Let them ask,” Grant dismissed, lowering his head to kiss his way—slowly—back up her throat. 

She knew she should protest—they had their covers to think of, and HYDRA would  _not_  be amused if Grant’s possessiveness cost them  _another_  operation—but as one of his hands left her wrist and found its way to the precise place she wanted it, she just couldn’t summon the will.

And she  _was_  a genius, after all. She could think of an excuse for the team.

 

 

_ilosttrackofthings asked: Five sentence fic: "Kiss me."_

Jemma anticipates a number of possible reactions to her frantic order: a suspicious look, an impatient question, or a blank stare, perhaps.

She’s  _not_  expecting instant compliance.

Ward’s hands cup her cheeks, tilting her face up towards him even as he leans down, and his lips meet hers with rather more passion than she might have expected, had she truly assumed that he would cooperate.

It’s a good kiss—very good. So good, in fact, that she entirely forgets the reason for it. All of her attention is focused on him—his lips, his tongue, his fingers tangling in her hair—and, after a few moments, the rapidly intensifying throb between her thighs.

Which is why the explosion, for all that it’s her own doing, takes  _her_  by just as much surprise as it takes him.

 

 

_safelycapricious asked: "I did not say that -- you are putting words in my mouth!" (Five sentence)_

“I’ll put more than  _words_  in your mouth,” Cabrera says with a leer, and Jemma is so disgusted and offended that for a moment, she honestly cannot think of a single word to say.

Perhaps Ward is similarly afflicted, because he doesn’t say anything, either. Which is just as well; the hard punch he delivers directly to Cabrera’s nose really speaks for itself.

Even though she’s watching it happen, Jemma still startles a little at the noise Cabrera’s head makes when it connects with the concrete. It earns her a frown.

“You all right, Simmons?” Ward asks.

“Yes,” she says, and clears her throat when her voice comes out a little higher than she means it to. “I’m fine, thank you. When did you get here?”

“Not soon enough, apparently,” he says, scowling at the unconscious (and heavily bleeding) Cabrera. “Do I need to kill him?”

It’s possible that her time in the field has warped her perspective, because Jemma’s first reaction to the question is not horror. Instead, she’s touched, and she’s certain the smile she gives Ward communicates it clearly.

“No, thank you,” she says, and pats his arm. “Cabrera is a prat, but he’s harmless. And I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson.” She takes another glance at her unconscious colleague but, after a moment (in more evidence of how the field has warped her), decides he’ll be fine. Assuming nothing’s changed in the months she’s been away from the Hub, his lab assistant is used to patching him up after his harassment is met with violence. “Did you hurt your knuckles?”

Ward scoffs. “I know how to throw a punch.”

“Of course you do,” she says. She’s a touch concerned about the way he’s still eyeing Cabrera, so—after the briefest hesitation—she loops her arm through his and turns him away. “It’s nice to see you, by the way! Did you have a nice holiday?”

Ward has been changed by their time on the team, as well; he walks her all the way to the hangar where the Bus is waiting without once attempting to put distance between them. In fact, it might be her imagination, but he seems to move even closer at one point.

She chooses not to examine the warm feeling it gives her.

 

 

_sapphireglyphs asked: Biospecalist + "For every choice, there is a price."_

Grant rolls his eyes. “You think I need a lecture about consequences, Simmons?”

“No,” Simmons says, smiling pleasantly. “I think you need a  _lesson_  on them.” 

She runs her fingers down his cheek, nails lightly scratching his skin. It doesn’t hurt at all, doesn’t even sting, but the feeling lingers after she draws her hand away. He shifts in his seat.

“And you’re gonna be the one to teach me, is that it?” he asks, shading his voice with derision.

“Oh, no,” she says, and steps back. “Not at all.” She trails her hand along his shoulder as she circles around the back of the chair he’s chained to, and he cracks his neck, uncomfortable. He doesn’t like having her where he can’t see her. “For something this important? I’m leaving this to the expert.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “And what expert would that be?”

It’s a smooth transition; Simmons’ hand leaves his right shoulder as a different hand lands on his left, and the  _expert_ rounds his chair to stand in front of him.

“That’d be me,” Natasha Romanoff says, smiling at him just as pleasantly as Simmons did.

Oh, fuck.

 

 

_Anonymous asked: "Why do you insist on calling me 'baby'?"_

The pit of dread in Jemma’s stomach grows a little larger as Ward ignores her, humming to himself while he checks the restraints on her assailants. She’s beginning to worry that he truly did lose his mind, down in Vault D, and while in any other situation, she wouldn’t care—serve him right if his punishment for his betrayal is insanity—it’s not a desirous state of affairs when she’s counting on him to protect her.

“Ward,” she presses.

He gives her a little smile as he straightens from his crouch over the largest of the enemy agents, tucking the man’s gun into the waistband of his jeans.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says, crossing the room to cup her shoulders with terrifyingly gentle hands. “I’m gonna take care of everything.”

“Of course you are,” she says faintly. Her heart is pounding a wild rhythm in her throat. “Only, when you say ‘take care of’….”

“I know you’re squeamish,” he says, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. It’s a tender touch; she thinks she would have preferred being struck. “So you might wanna close your eyes for this.” He glances over his shoulder, giving Jemma an excellent view of his profile as his kind smile slides into a wicked grin. “It’s gonna get messy.”

 

 

_ilosttrackofthings asked: "Am I just that drunk or are there actually two of them?"_

“Nope,” Grant said, sounding weirdly glum for a guy whose girlfriend had just unexpectedly doubled. “There are two of them.”

“Okay, but,” Skye looked from one Jemma to the other. They weren’t  _totally_  identical, but they were really really close, and her poor drunk brain was having some trouble getting wrapped around it. “How? Why?”

“Science,” he said, with a pathetic little jazz-hands motion to accompany his impersonation of Fitz’s accent. “Apparently.” He motioned sadly for another drink. “As for why, who the fuck knows.”

“What is  _with_  you?” she asked, distracted from her examination of not-her-Jemma’s outfit. It was all black and badass, like something out of an action movie. Super cool. “Did you get turned down for a threesome, or what?”

He scowled. “No.” He gestured to the not-Jemma. “She’s from another universe. Apparently. And in that universe, I’m apparently evil.”

Skye nearly spit out her drink laughing.

“She called you evil?” she asked around a cough. “What, did you cheat on her or something?”

“No.” He knocked his drink back in one swallow. “I tried to kill her.”

She stared. “What?”

“I tried to kill her,” he repeated. “Twice. And kidnapped you—also twice.” 

“Wow,” she said, slowly. This was even harder to twist her mind around than the two Jemmas concept. “Who would’ve guessed that you’d be the  _good_  twin?”

 

 

_Anonymous asked: A better man would feel guilty about plotting to seduce Jemma away from her boyfriend._

But Grant’s never been too fussed about not being a good man. He wants Jemma, and he’s gonna get her.

Sure, it’s gonna be an uphill battle—there’s a lot of history between them, most of it bad, and she seems pretty attached to this new guy—but he’s got faith in his abilities. Sooner or later, he’ll win her over.

He’s not gonna kill her boyfriend. It’s tempting, sure—and gets more tempting by the minute, as the jackass puts his hands all over Jemma like he’s got  _any right_ —but he’s fully capable of learning from his mistakes, and he’s not gonna make that one again.

No, he’ll be winning Jemma over the old-fashioned way: with his good looks and charm.

(And, okay, maybe a  _little_  murder. But only if he’s one hundred percent  _positive_  that it can’t be traced back to him in any way, shape, or form.)


	79. amateurs attempting demon summonings (demon!Grant)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of the five-sentence prompts, but as it a) got long and b) takes place in the [demon!Grant](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/7855229) [verse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4403990), it gets its own chapter.

_Anonymous asked: It was bad enough when amateurs attempted a demon summoning, but it was worse when they actually succeeded._

Of course, things had (as much as she hated to admit it) improved somewhat since Jemma was marked by a demon of her own.

“Simmons,” Trip said carefully. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Not at all,” she said, keeping her eyes on the demon in front of her. “However, it appears to be working, so I believe I’ll keep at it.”

“Really?” the demon in question asked, almost despairingly. “Look, they summoned me, right?”

“Yes,” Jemma agreed, and gave a disparaging look to the three idiots cowering behind her. “They did.”

“And they did it  _wrong_ ,” the demon continued. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Which means, by pretty much  _every_  law of magic, it’s absolutely my right to do with them what I see fit,” the demon concluded. 

“Well, I can’t dispute that,” she admitted, because the demon was correct. “However, I have a duty to protect non-magical life, no matter how moronic. So I’m afraid that if you want to harm them, you’re going to have to go through me.”

Trip—also behind her, for all that he’d protested—made an unhappy noise.

One the demon echoed. “Oh come  _on_. Please?”

“No,” she said. 

“Pleeeeeease?”

Jemma was somewhat alarmed to find that she rather liked this demon. Hopefully it was merely the fact of this particular demon’s personality, and not a sign that the mark had even  _more_  unfortunate side effects. She shuddered to imagine what might happen if there were some sort of attitude adjustment included in the mark.

“No,” she repeated. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you hurt them.”

“Even though they deserve it?” the demon asked, frowning.

“Even though they deserve it.”

“Oh, fine,” the demon said, his frown sliding into something like a pout. He leaned around to point at the idiots sheltering behind Jemma. “But this isn’t over,  _mortals_. She won’t be here to protect you forever—sooner or later you’re gonna be alone, and then we’ll settle this.”

One of the idiots squeaked, and the demon—apparently satisfied—disappeared in a flash of light.

There was a long moment of silence. Jemma dropped the protective ward she had laid between herself and the demon and then turned slowly to face Trip and the three idiots. Trip was aiming an unreadable look in her direction.

“I’d better get these three into protective custody,” he said, giving one of the idiots a shove towards the door. “You gonna be okay alone?”

She let her mage sight take over and did a quick sweep of the room, checking for hidden traps (or super-powerful and terrifying demons), then, when she found nothing, nodded.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, letting her vision return to the normal spectrum. “I’ll just get started on clean up.”

“I’ll send a team in,” he said. The idiots, at his gentle prodding, started for the door, but he paused beside her. “Don’t do that again.”

“It worked,” she reminded him.

“You had no guarantee it would,” he said. “And no guarantee it’ll work next time. So seriously, girl. Don’t.”

“I can’t promise that,” she said, and he sighed.

“You and your bravery are gonna be the death of me,” he said, pulling her into a quick, one-armed hug. “Be careful. May and Coulson are still dealing with the mess outside; if that demon shows up again, you call for Fitz, you hear me? He’ll let us know you need us.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, and nudged him towards the door. “I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t feel anywhere near as confident as she sounded, but Trip must have been convinced, because he departed without further protest.

Left alone in the makeshift ritual room, Jemma shivered. She could feel the summoning’s residual magic tingling along her spine, and she didn’t like it at all.

Which was why the first thing she did was disperse it. A quick cleansing spell—something which would have been far beyond her abilities only a few months ago—took care of the worst of it, and she was able to relax slightly.

Not for long, however; she no sooner knelt next to the summoning circle, intending to erase it from existence, than she felt hands cupping her shoulders, sending a wholly different sort of feeling down her spine.

“You’re welcome,” her own personal demon murmured in her ear.


	80. "you're going to get in trouble" (obsession verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five sentence fill, but this one takes place in the same verse as [obsession](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3595836/chapters/9096274) and [father's day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3595836/chapters/9465048), it gets its own chapter.

_Anonymous asked: "You're going to be in trouble when my Daddy gets here."_

“Hush, darling,” Jemma murmurs, pulling Sofia into her lap. Speaking is rather painful, with the way her jaw is swelling, but she doesn’t like the look the ringleader of this band of morons is giving her daughter. “We’re all right. This isn’t the time for that.”

“That’s right,” the ringleader says smugly, sneering at Sofia. “Listen to your mom, you little brat.  _I’m_  in charge here; no one gives a fuck about your daddy.”

With that, he turns away, his attention caught by one of his men, and Sofia gives Jemma a look of great offense. 

“But they  _are_  going to be in trouble when Daddy gets here,” she says, with an adorable little frown.

“Of course they are, dove,” Jemma agrees, smoothing Sofia’s hair away from her face. “But, as tempting as it may be, it is not our responsibility to save others from their own stupidity. We’ll just sit here quietly and wait for Daddy to come save us, hmm?”

It’s a course of action that rather grates, if she’s honest—they’re sheltering in a  _lab_ , for some unfathomable reason, and even from here, sitting on the floor in the corner, Jemma can see no less than seven ways by which she could cause enough chaos to escape.

But there’s Sofia to consider. Their captors haven’t harmed her, as yet—they’ve saved their violence for Jemma—but she’s not willing to risk that changing. She’ll save chaos as a last resort; if these men attempt to touch Sofia, Jemma will kill them all, but until then, she’ll wait for Grant.

“Okay, Mummy,” Sofia agrees, snuggling against her. 

Jemma rests her chin on Sofia’s head, but keeps her eyes on their captors. She’s almost surprised by how calm she is; this is very nearly her worst fear, coming true for the second time.

This is better though—much, much better—than having Sofia stolen from her at the hospital. She doesn’t have to wait and wonder, left to imagine every horrible thing that might be happening to her sweet daughter. She can see for herself that Sofia is fine—can personally assure that she  _remains_  fine.

Perhaps that’s it. It’s the not knowing that’s the worst, really.

If they weren’t so horrible, Jemma might pity their captors Grant’s fear. (Because he must be frantic, by now.) He won’t be kind when he gets to them, and he certainly won’t be merciful. Every single one of these men is going to die screaming—that is not at all in question.

What  _is_  in question is how to ensure that Sofia isn’t scarred for life by what her father does to these men.


	81. if you blow something up correctly (mad scientist verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five sentence fill, but as it takes place in the same verse as the next chapter, it gets its own.

_sapphireglyphs asked: "I'll have you know, if you blow something up correctly, there's nothing LEFT to fix."_

Skye watches Ward warily as he looks to Coulson. He gives no sign of hearing Simmons’ words, but there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw that has her worried. She’s  _never_  seen him this angry—not even that time she got caught post-sex with Miles.

“Sir,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can I have a word?”

“Of course,” Coulson says pleasantly, motioning towards the door. “After you.”

Ward stalks out of the briefing room, and Coulson follows, leaving Skye alone with their guests. She’s…not sure how to feel about that, but she’s a little distracted worrying that Ward’s about to snap and kill somebody, so she keeps her eyes on him through the windows.

“You’re not an agent.”

It’s not a question, and Skye turns to find Simmons watching her curiously.

“Uh, no,” she agrees. “Is it that obvious?”

Simmons smiles—a surprisingly sweet smile, for a woman who’s apparently so dangerous that she needs two huge, well-armed guards and some seriously scary-looking manacles. 

(And it’s especially surprising considering the fact that Simmons just suggested they blow up an entire city block.)

“A little,” she says. “It’s just that I’ve never heard a SHIELD agent addressed by her first name, so…”

“Right,” Skye says. “That.” She takes another glance through the windows, but doesn’t see what harm sharing some details with Simmons could do, so she shrugs. “I’m a consultant. I’m the team hacker.”

Simmons tips her head. “SHIELD has plenty of hackers.”

“Yeah.” Skye clears her throat. “I was with the Rising Tide, Coulson recruited me, it was a whole big thing.”

“The Rising Tide?” Simmons asks, eyebrows going up. “How interesting. How does a hacktivist become a member of a SHIELD response team, I wonder?”

There’s a difference between friendly conversation and sharing her whole life story, so Skye dodges the question.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she says. “How does a literal mad scientist end up consulting for SHIELD?”

“Ah,” Simmons smiles. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t been told. That explains his attitude.”

Her eyes have wandered to the windows and are locked on Ward, and her expression gives Skye a weird surge of protective feelings for her SO. He’s been on edge all day, and she doesn’t like it at all.

“What’s Ward got to do with anything?”

Simmons’ smile widens, like Skye’s said something really hilarious.

“ _Ward_ ,” she says, slowly and deliberately, “Used to be my lover.”

Skye stares. “Your—”

“Of course, he was rather more fun, then,” she continues, almost to herself. “Much less uptight.” Her eyes have been lingering on Ward, but they return to Skye now. “He was playing a character, you see; he seduced me in order to gain access to my organization.”

Skye’s head is reeling, and she bites her lip to keep any of her many, many thoughts from slipping out. She’s seen Ward go undercover before, flash a pretty smile at a civilian or two to ease the team’s way, but a full-on honeypot mission? Really?

“To make a long story short,” Simmons says, “He betrayed me, and my entire organization collapsed.” She frowns, looking more offended than heartbroken. “Several  _very_  important experiments were ruined in the process.”

“Okay, but,” Skye’s having some trouble following the logic here. “If you were bad enough for SHIELD to send Ward in to bring you down, how’d you end up a consultant?”

“Ah.” Simmons’ frown is replaced with a smug smile. “I’m very brilliant, you know. SHIELD  _would_  have locked me up, I’m certain, if I refused to cooperate, but as I was amenable to a deal…well, it would be quite a waste of my genius to let me rot in a cell, after all.”

Skye shakes her head. It does sound like SHIELD logic, but as far as she’s concerned, someone who needs guards and shackles whenever they leave a base is probably someone you shouldn’t employ.

“Crazy,” she mutters.

Simmons just smiles and shrugs, and Skye—assuming the conversation is over—returns to her neglected work on the holocom. The room’s only silent for a few minutes, though, before Simmons speaks again.

“He was an entirely different person then, you know,” she says, and Skye looks up to find Simmons is staring at Ward—still having what looks like a whisper-shouted argument with Coulson—again. “Adam—that was his name, at the time—had nothing at all in common with Agent Ward.”

Something in her tone sets Skye’s teeth on edge.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs. “That’s the point of undercover work, right?”

“Of course,” Simmons agrees placidly, but her eyes are sharp when they meet Skye’s. “But it must make it difficult to trust him, mustn’t it?”

Skye scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How can you be certain that the man he is with you is any more genuine than the one he was with me?” Simmons asks.

Her tone is so reasonable that for a second, Skye actually thinks—

“No,” she snaps. “That’s stupid, why would he lie to  _us_? We’re his  _team_.”

She shakes her head and gets back to work. Simmons is just trying to mess with her, that’s all. Probably she’s got a grudge against Ward for the whole arresting her thing, and she’s trying to screw things up with the team in revenge.

Well it’s not gonna work. Not on Skye. They’ve been through  _way_  too much together for her to doubt Ward.

“I wonder,” Simmons murmurs, but she must know Skye’s not buying it, because she doesn’t say anything else.

No wonder Ward’s so upset to have her here.


	82. the dragon as rescuer (mad scientist verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five sentence fill, but as it takes place in the same verse as the previous chapter, it gets its own.

_Anonymous asked: He was the dragon who rescued the princess from the knight._

Or something like that.

“A faulty metaphor,” Jemma mused to herself, as the ‘dragon’ in question searched her guards’ bodies. He took their guns, of course, even though he was already carrying three that she could see—and likely at least two more she couldn’t. “As I’m hardly a princess.”

The words earned her a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “ _Adam_.”

“Okay,” he sighed, straightening from his crouch. “Let’s get this out of the way right now. I played you, yes.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Quite severely.”

“But that cover was  _me_ ,” he said. “That guy you met a few months ago, his name was the only real thing about him. Adam was the opposite—everything about him was real, except the name.”

Jemma crossed her arms.

“Everything,” he stressed. “Including my feelings for you.”

He stepped into her space, rough hands sliding over her hips. The touch was one she had sorely missed during her time in the Fridge, and despite herself, she felt heat curl in her abdomen.

“I had to turn you in,” he said. “I couldn’t blow my cover, not then.”

“But things are different now?” she asked, watching his face.

It was obvious that the answer was yes—her dead guards could attest to that, as could the invading force currently storming the Fridge—but she was curious as to the why. 

She knew, when she assisted his team on that case some months ago, that the boring, uptight man who scowled whenever she spoke was an act. This, however, was hardly what she had expected. 

“Very,” he grinned. “SHIELD is gone, and HYDRA’s taking its place.” He rested his forehead against hers, voice sliding into a seductive register. “And HYDRA has a place for you.”

“Does it,” she murmured.

“Complete freedom,” he said. “Whatever you wanna do, HYDRA’ll be glad to see it happen. Biological weapons, poisons, human experimentation—everything SHIELD named off-limits. You can have your own lab again, any supplies or equipment you need.”

It was an attractive offer—very attractive; part of her was already considering which of her old experiments to restart first—but she was a little more concerned with how close he was standing.

“And if I want HYDRA, but not you?” she asked.

His hands tightened on her hips, but his quiet laugh was all amusement.

“We both know you want me,” he said, thumbs digging into the hollows of her hipbones. “Let’s not waste time with games.”

“I spent two years in  _prison_  because of you,” she reminded him, leaning back. His grip was too tight for her to back away, but she put as much distance between them as she comfortably could. “Only allowed to work on SHIELD-approved projects,  _shackled_  whenever I left the Fridge. HYDRA will take me with or without you, I should think.”

“You’re angry,” he said, tipping his head in acknowledgement. “That’s fair. You’ve got every right to be.” He tugged her closer, close enough that the hard edges of his tac vest dug uncomfortably into her chest. “But you’re too smart to turn me down out of spite. Aren’t you?”

He was right, damn him. As much as she would have enjoyed telling him to get lost, her heart simply wouldn’t allow it. She did love him, as much as she had tried to stop after being imprisoned.

“Fine,” she said, hooking her fingers through the straps in his vest. “But you’re going to make it up to me.”

He grinned, sharp and dangerous—exactly the smile she had spent so long missing.

“Absolutely,” he said. “With interest.”


	83. let darkness have its way with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Dictionary** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.

Jemma is terrified of heights.

She wasn’t always—actually, she once quite enjoyed them—but experiencing free-fall from thirty-six thousand feet does change one’s perspective. The fact that the whole mess ended happily doesn’t make a difference; ever since she was fished out of the ocean, she’s been entirely discomfited by any situation requiring her feet to leave solid ground.

Her fear hasn’t faded in all the years since, but today, it can’t touch her.

It’s windy, here up on this cliff—not as windy as the cargo bay with the ramp lowered at cruising altitude, but windy nonetheless. Her carefully constructed hairstyle has been utterly destroyed; loose tendrils of her hair keep blowing into her eyes, and they water in response.

(That’s not really why she’s crying. But she’ll let herself pretend.)

It’s a beautiful view; down below, waves crash against the rocks, and in front of her there’s nothing but water as far as the eye can see. The sun is setting, painting the horizon in brilliant orange and pink.

She wishes she could enjoy it.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His voice doesn’t startle her. She wasn’t expecting him and didn’t hear him approach, but somehow it’s not at all a surprise that he’s here. In fact, it’s almost fitting—as though he’s walked right out of her memories of that horrible day.

“Did you?” she asks, without turning to face him.

“No,” he admits. She can hear a smile in his voice. “But it sounds better than saying I tracked you, doesn’t it? More poetic.”

His hands land on her shoulders, and she closes her eyes. She tries to draw up her hate for him, the old, familiar burning rage that even the thought of him always sparks, and fails utterly. She just hasn’t the energy for hate.

Not today.

“What do you want, Ward?” she asks.

He hums thoughtfully, tugging her back a step to erase the space between their bodies. The warmth of his chest—and his arms, as he crosses them over her collarbone in something she’d call a hug, if it came from anyone else—soaks into her, making her skin prickle. She didn’t realize, before, how cold it is up here.

“I wanted to check on you,” he says. “I was worried when I heard you missed the funeral.”

Though his breath brushes her ear, his words hit her directly in the sternum. She blinks away more tears.

“I didn’t see the point,” she says. It’s a lie, as she’s sure he knows; even if the waver in her voice didn’t give her away, her black dress would. She fully intended on going, until—until. “Funerals are for the living.”

“You’re living,” he points out.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” she says. Her voice breaks on it.

Ward’s arms fall away, but only for a moment; then one is wrapping around her waist, solid and sure, as his other hand comes to rest over her heart.

“The dead don’t feel pain,” he says, voice low and intimate. “And you’re hurting, aren’t you?”

Her back has been warmed by his chest, but his hand does nothing for her heart. It’s been frozen through for days, a fitting accompaniment to the hole in her lungs.

What will she lose by the admission? He already knows the answer. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?” she asks. “It’s not your fault…for  _once_.”

Her muttered addition seems to amuse him; his chest jumps against her back as he breathes a quiet laugh.

“No, it’s not. I’m not accepting blame,” he says. “I’m expressing sympathy.”

She laughs, bitterly.

“I’m surprised you even know that word,” she says. “I certainly don’t believe you’re capable of feeling it.”

He smiles against her cheek. “My assistant got me a dictionary of emotional terms for my birthday. I’m trying to grow as a person.”

That Ward actually has an  _assistant_  is a concept it’s still difficult to wrap her mind around, even after all this time. Somehow his position as the head of a multi-national terrorist organization is just impossible to absorb.

That he’s making jokes on  _this_ , the worst day of her life, is less baffling.

“Good luck with that,” she mutters.

He sighs, arm tightening around her waist.

“I  _am_  sorry, you know,” he says, voice a very convincing impression of sincere. “Really. I don’t like to see you sad.”

He’s lying, of course.

“You tried to kill me two weeks ago,” she says, emotionless.

“That wasn’t personal,” he says solemnly. “This is.”

She doesn’t believe him.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“You’re grieving,” he says. His hand shifts, moving from covering her heart to cupping her breast in a single breath. “You shouldn’t grieve alone.”

Jemma bites her lip as he kisses her neck, hating the both of them for the arousal already quickening her heartbeat. But her eyes flutter closed as he thumbs at her nipple, and she already knows she’s going to give in.

She always does.

After all these decades, it’s practically tradition. Every time someone dies—first the team, both the original members and the ones he never knew, and then their children and grandchildren—they end up falling into bed. She can’t explain it. She hates him, still, with the same intensity she felt staring down the barrel of his gun after she killed Bakshi, and yet, somehow, they always end up here.

He’s the last surviving piece of her old life. And now, with Fitz’s granddaughter—the last of the team’s descendants who  _knew_  Jemma, who cared about her—dead, he’s the only person left in the world who will give her even a second thought.

Heat throbs between her thighs as Ward sucks a bruise into the junction of her neck and shoulder, and she  _hates_  him. She hates him and she hates herself and she hates the thrice-damned Kree stone that made her immortal, that forced her to outlive everyone she’s ever cared about—leaving her with only the enemy for comfort.

The enemy who  _also_  isn’t aging—though how that is, he’s never said.

“Let me help you,” Ward murmurs. His other hand has found the very fashionable cut-out on the side of her dress, and his fingers slip between the complicated lacing to rest against her bare skin. “I’ll make you feel better, baby.”

She opens her eyes. The sun has finished setting; it’s dark on the cliff, only the barest sliver of a waning moon aiding the stars in lighting the sky. She can still hear the crash of the waves against the rocks, however, and it makes her think again of the awful day she jumped from the Bus—of an hour spent treading water in the ocean with him, trusting him to keep her afloat if her exhausted limbs failed her.

She feels, suddenly, so very, very old.

“Very well,” she says. “But not here.”

He grins against her shoulder. “No. Not here.”

She follows him home, to his penthouse suite in the skyscraper from which HYDRA is based these days, and he soothes her grief with touches that are extremely satisfying and not at all gentle.

She hates him, still. She’ll always hate him.

Somehow, though, she just never finds the energy necessary to leave.


	84. "please don't break another window"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five-sentence fill, but as it got long, it gets its own chapter.

_Anonymous asked: "Please don't break another window"_

“If you don’t want me to break a window,” Jemma says, very reasonably, “Then open the door and let me out.”

Her captor—guard? He hasn’t introduced himself, either way, but somehow she gets the impression that he’s not the person responsible for bringing her here—winces.

“I…can’t do that,” he says.

“Well, then,” she shrugs. “I’m afraid I can’t promise not to break another window.”

“ _Please_  don’t,” he says again, voice surprisingly pleading for a man with such a large gun. “You might hurt yourself.”

Interesting. Jemma frowns, mind turning over his tone—that wasn’t a threat. That was genuine concern.

“So you’re holding me prisoner,” she says. “But you don’t want me injured?”

The word alone is enough to make him wince again, which she takes as confirmation.

So. Her captors—whomever they might be—don’t intend to harm her, then. In which case it’s likely she’s been brought here for her scientific genius. 

She’s been warned that this was a risk—SHIELD has some, frankly, terrifying statistics on kidnapped scientists—but she hasn’t, as yet, taken the Academy’s offered course on enduring such situations. It simply didn’t seem urgent, cloistered as she is—was—within the Academy’s very secure campus.

“Well,” she says, as her guard turns slightly away to mutter something—into a radio, she presumes, though she can’t rule out that he’s merely talking to himself. “Drat.”

“Look, just,” he raises his hands placatingly, as though he’s expecting her to be moved to violence at any moment. “Just, hang tight for a second, okay? There’s a totally reasonable explanation.”

Though she objects to the order—or rather, the apologetic tone in which it’s delivered; if he’s going to hold her against her will, the least he could do is be  _decisive_  about it—she nonetheless takes a seat on the couch he indicates. Her head is still throbbing, as it has been since she woke here, and the pain is severe enough to make her dizzy.

“Well?” she asks, when he doesn’t begin to explain.

“Oh!” he says. “It’s not—I mean, I’m…not the one who’s gonna explain. I think the boss’d prefer to do it himself. He’s on his way, I promise, there was just a little…snag.”

“Fine,” she says, though her stomach is tight with apprehension at the idea of meeting this  _boss—_ presumably the person who brought her here in the first place.

“Great,” he says, clearly relieved. “Just—stay there, okay? And  _please_  don’t break any windows.” He pauses. “Or doors. Or…anything else.”

She stares him down; he winces and disappears into the corridor, closing the door very firmly behind himself.

It really is only a few moments; she’s still trying to decide whether or not to risk breaking another window—breaking the first one didn’t get her much—when the door opens, and a new man enters.

A new, very  _attractive_  man. It’s a ridiculous moment for it—she has been  _kidnapped_  right out of her dorm—but Jemma’s mouth goes dry at the smile the man gives her.

It’s…quite a smile.

“So,” he says. “I hear you’ve been breaking my windows.” Rather than taking any of the numerous seats available in the room, he perches on the coffee table directly in front of her, close enough that his knees brush hers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“What do I—?” she stares at him, utterly gobsmacked. “ _You’re_  the one holding a sixteen-year-old girl prisoner! The only person who’s owed any explanation here is  _me_.”

He laughs, low and amused. “Is that so?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she snaps, ignoring the way her face has gone hot. She’s blushing, and while she knows perfectly well why, she would rather not address it.

“Okay,” he says, sobering abruptly. “Fine. Let’s start with the most important part: you’re not sixteen.”

She blinks, forgetting attraction and embarrassment in favor of complete bewilderment. 

“Um,” she says. “Yes. I am.”

“No,” he says. “You’re not.” He laces his fingers and sits forward. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s obvious that’s where you are mentally, and as far as we can tell, it’s physical, too, but—”

“How does that in any way make me  _not_  sixteen?” she interrupts, unable to help herself.

“I’m getting there,” he says, then sighs. “Lemme try again. Don’t ask me to explain it, because science is your thing, not mine, but somehow, you’ve managed to…de-age yourself, I guess.”

Jemma considers, with no small amount of worry, precisely what it might mean for her well-being that her kidnapper is apparently insane.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he says, before she can muster a response to his ridiculous claim. “But this morning you were twenty-eight. Then there was an explosion in your lab, and when the smoke cleared, you were…” He gestures at her. “This.”

He’s  _definitely_  insane. This has the potential to get very awful very quickly, but perhaps she’ll be able to talk him into letting her go?

“All right,” she says. “I don’t know who you are—”

“Grant Ward,” he cuts in. “You work for me.” He smiles to himself. “Kind of.”

She doesn’t want to get distracted from the issue at hand, but… “Kind of?”

“You’re the head of my science division,” he says. “And like I said, science isn’t my thing. Mostly I just sign off on your purchase requisitions.” His smile becomes a grin, and quite a devastating one. “Also, we’re dating. Makes the chain of command kinda murky.”

Her brain stutters over that, leaving her gaping at him, and he leans back on his hands, smug expression conveying his satisfaction with her reaction. His shirt clings attractively to his torso at the motion, and she swallows.

A tiny part of her (she suspects her libido) suggests that perhaps his claims aren’t  _that_  outlandish, and in any case, would it really do that much harm to play along? She quashes it immediately, though not without regret.

“Any questions?” he asks. His smile is innocent, but his eyes are knowing.

Jemma is, she thinks, in quite a lot of trouble.


	85. staring (Jemma/Rumlow)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five sentence fill, but as it's a different pairing, it gets its own chapter. Also, takes place in the same verse as [Rewards](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3595836/chapters/9464700).

_Anonymous asked: Rumlow was staring at her again._

Jemma kept her eyes on the messy, half-destroyed notes she was trying to decipher, but she  _knew_  he was staring. His eyes were boring into her back, searing right through her clothes to burn the skin beneath. 

The half-healed bruises on her hips seemed to throb at the thought—which was  _ridiculous_ —and she shifted on her feet, unsettled.

“Something wrong, Simmons?” one of the non-Rumlow specialists asked, raising his eyebrows at her. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head as much to clear it as to emphasize how  _not_  wrong things were. “It’s fine. These notes are in terrible condition, that’s all. I’m afraid we’ll be here a while longer, yet.”

“Not your fault,” the specialist said. His dirty look was aimed over her head, and though she didn’t turn to follow it, she had a feeling it was aimed at Rumlow. “ _You’re_  not the one that decided  _fire_  was the best way to take an enemy lab.”

“It worked,” Rumlow said, shameless.

“Yeah, and made what  _should_  have been an easy in-an-out a six hour operation requiring transpo and protection for our best biochemist,” one of the other specialists scoffed. “Great thinking.”

“It worked,” Rumlow repeated, and she could hear a smirk in his voice.

Jemma stared down at the torn page in front of her, trying to ignore the sudden constriction of her lungs. She was fairly certain Rumlow wasn’t referring to the capture of the lab—in fact, she was beginning to suspect he had orchestrated this entire mess solely to trap her here, in his presence, where she couldn’t dodge him the way she’d been doing for the past week.

She still didn’t want to discuss their (admittedly spectacularly memorable) encounter, but it appeared she had no choice.

She shuddered to think what he might resort to next, should this attempt fail.


	86. "You can do better"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another five sentence fill but, as it got long, it gets its own chapter.

_ilosttrackofthings asked: "You can do better."_

Jemma closes her eyes, hoping against hope that the voice was just her imagination—but no. She opens them to, as expected, find Hicks settling into her date’s empty seat.

“Really?” she demands. She has a very strong urge to shout, but, in deference to the other diners around them, keeps her voice low. “Stalking me wasn’t enough? Now he’s sending you lot to spy on my dates?”

“Could be worse,” Hicks says philosophically. He steals a chip from her date’s plate and nibbles at it, then—apparently finding it satisfactory—eats the rest in one bite. “He could be sending us to  _kill_  them.”

It’s a fair point, and she tips her head, acknowledging it. 

“True enough,” she says. “And, now that you’ve alerted me to your presence, you may leave.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” he says, with an exaggerated pout. “Here I am, just wanting to make conversation—”

“I don’t want you here when Rick gets back,” she hisses. “The last thing I want to do is have to explain that I’m—”

“That you’re married?” he asks over her, innocently.

She presses her lips together and counts slowly to ten, containing her immediate reaction. He eats another chip as he watches her, clearly entertained.

“I,” she says, with great dignity, “Am  _not married_.”

“Really?” he asks. He rests his chin on his hand, smiling. “’Cause I think the boss would care to disagree.”

“The  _boss_  is a murderer and a traitor who held me hostage for three weeks,” she snaps. “We’re divorced, he has no right to me any longer, and if you don’t leave in the next  _five seconds_  I am going to hit my panic button. Then you may have this conversation with SHIELD.”

“Okay, okay,” Hicks says. He spreads his hands in a show of innocence as he stands. “No need for threats, doc. Just saying—if it were  _my_  wife off on dates with total losers, I wouldn’t stick to recon for long.”

“ _You’re_  divorced, too,” she calls after him as he walks away. As far as these things go, it’s a fairly pathetic comeback, but her mind is stuck on the point he’s made.

It’s been more than a year since Grant revealed himself as a traitor, and she’s been trying for a while now to fill the hole in her life said revelation left. She was terrified of his reaction, at first; the first seventeen dates she went on were all with fellow SHIELD agents and held within the safe confines of the Playground.

In the last few months, however, she’s started to accept dates with civilians—started holding them in public places. Somewhere along the line, without even consciously noting it, she stopped fearing Grant’s potential retaliation.

“Sorry about that,” Rick says, resuming his seat across from her. “I know it was rude of me, but I’ve been waiting all week for that call—I hope I haven’t offended you.”

The smile he gives her is wide and charming, and Jemma returns it weakly, disquieted.

“No,” she says. “Not at all. I understand.”

She hasn’t feared Grant inflicting violence on her dates in months, she realizes, because he  _hasn’t_. She’s been out in public with other men, some of them quite handsome, a dozen times, and this is the first indication she’s had that Grant even  _knows_  about it.

Were he anyone else, it might be reassuring—evidence that he was starting to move on, preparing to let go of her.

But this is  _Grant_ —Grant who sends his men to follow her—to  _protect_  her, even from his own people. Grant, whose second rescued her from an awkward conversation last week and whose assistant sent her a  _birthday card_.

If Grant isn’t killing—or even harming—her dates, it’s because he’s not threatened by them. That might merely be his natural arrogance, but, staring across the table at a man who somehow has become markedly less attractive in the ten minutes he was gone, Jemma wonders if perhaps Grant knows something she doesn’t.

(Or, worse, something she  _does_ , but is refusing to accept.)


	87. "You know I'm right!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: ""You know I'm right! I'm always right!""

The dead are surprisingly talkative.

To Jemma, at least.

She doesn’t remember how old she was when it started. Young, certainly, though old enough to understand that it wasn’t  _normal_ , and that it was best kept to herself. The dead themselves were helpful in that regard; her grandfather Charles, who died in the war, has always been quick with a dire mutter or two about government experimentation and the risks of being disappeared.

(He was heartbroken when she accepted SHIELD’s job offer. Grandfather Charles was always something of an anti-establishment man, or so it seems.)

Keeping her ability a secret has somewhat negatively impacted her attempts to investigate and quantify it—she’s hardly an impartial observer—but she decided long ago that it’s a fair trade for not being Indexed and studied, so she doesn’t dwell on it. At times, it’s almost easy to forget she even has the ability. It’s simply normal to her—and it barely affects her life at all.

Until she ventures into the field, that is.

The thing is, she doesn’t see  _all_  the dead. That, she’s certain, would have driven her mad before her tenth birthday. No, it’s a fairly limited ability, depending—she’s hypothesized—on the dead themselves.

Everywhere she goes, she is followed by Grandfather Charles and cousin Jessy (who died in a car wreck at sixteen, three years before Jemma was born). Sometimes they make themselves scarce—Jessy never fears to boss Grandfather Charles away when Jemma is on dates, for instance, and has yet to stay more than five seconds into a dissection—but for the most part, they’re her constant companions.

Jemma is, as far as she knows, the only person who  _sees_  and  _hears_  the dead. But, though she’s not the only person followed by them, it was rare to see others at the Academy and even the Sandbox. A dead parent here, a dead lover there—nothing to write home about, really.

The Bus, on the other hand, is full to bursting with dead people.

Fitz’s father, of course, is an old and dear friend, at this point. He’s taken to Skye quite nicely, often giving Fitz unheard advice about jokes and smiles and  _unbutton your shirt a little, boy, does that look like a woman who likes a starched collar_? It’s very sweet.

Coulson is followed by a whole line of agents. They tsk over him, shake their heads whenever he mentions Tahiti, and delight in attempting to make Jemma laugh at inappropriate moments. They urge her to watch Coulson closely, to take care of him—he needs looking after, they say, more than he knows.

May is followed by a little girl, a pouting child who makes faces whenever powered people are mentioned. She doesn’t say much, just dogs May’s heels, occasionally tugging at her hand. Jemma could likely get answers out of her, if so she desired—the dead are always happy to cooperate—but can’t quite bring herself to try.

And then there’s Ward.

Like May, Ward is followed by a child. Unlike May, his follower is a little boy, and a very talkative one, at that. Jemma doesn’t need to ask him any of the questions she hesitates to ask the little girl following May—she learns early on that his name is Thomas, and he’s dead because he drowned.

(The former, she knows because he tells her the moment he realizes she can hear him. The latter she deduces from the way he clings to Ward’s back in the ocean, sobbing every time the waves swell.)

Jemma worries about Thomas.

He seems to admire Ward, always praising his efforts to protect people— _did you see that, Jemma?_  is the phrase she hears from him most often—but sometimes, she spots something sad and bruised in his eyes as he watches Ward with the team.

“Grant wants to be good,” he tells her once, sitting on the table next to Ward as Jemma stitches a wound high on his collarbone. “But he’s not very good at it.” He swings his feet morosely. “He’s too loyal.”

Jemma frowns to herself, wondering how being loyal could possibly connect to a failure to be good.

“Something wrong?” Ward asks.

“Yes,” Thomas mutters, a touch sulkily.

“No,” Jemma says, forcing herself to smile. “You’ll need to be very careful, though; with the way this cut is positioned, I’m afraid it will be all too easy to tear these stitches.”

“I’m in favor of that,” Jessy sighs dreamily. “If he tears them, you’ll get to patch him up again, and the more time he spends shirtless, the better.”

Thomas makes a face. “Gross.”

“Got it,” Ward says. “Thanks.”

“He’s dishy,” Jessy says. “Even better than that bloke you dated last year, Jem. You should bat your eyelashes, give him a giggle or two. He looks the sort who takes direction well; might make up for his personality.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thomas demands, as Jemma tries to control her blush.

“Well,” she says, a little more loudly than necessary, and clears her throat. “That’s you done.”

Ward frowns, studying her face, and Jessy pretends to swoon back against the counter.

“Those  _eyes_ ,” she says. “If only I were a little older.”

“And less dead,” Thomas offers.

“That too.”

“Simmons?” Ward asks. “Are you  _sure_  you’re okay?”

“Yes, fine,” she says, over Grandfather Charles’ grumbling lecture to Jessy about never trusting a man who doesn’t wear a beard. “I’m a touch distracted today, I suppose. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He leans forward to grasp her shoulder with a warm, firm hand. Jemma attributes the flush building at the base of her throat to the way Jessy  _ooooh_ s at the contact. “Was it the mountain?”

The team spent all morning at the summit of a horribly tall mountain, working a case for which Jemma’s presence was absolutely vital. She shudders to think of it even now, hours later.

“I think so,” she says. It’s not even entirely a lie; usually she’s much better at blocking out the dead, and her sudden failure might well be connected to the awful fright she had today. “I don’t believe my fear of heights will be going away anytime soon.”

He squeezes her shoulder, face solemn.

“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says.

“Damn right,” Grandfather Charles agrees. “Imagine, making a little girl who’s been skydiving work on a bloody  _mountain_! I’ll tell you, that Coulson—”

“Thank you, Ward,” she says, blocking out the rest of Grandfather Charles’ rant. “I do appreciate that. And there’s no need to worry,” she adds, because he’s still looking at her with concern. “I’ll be right as rain once I’ve had some sleep.”

“Or sex,” Jessy contributes innocently.

Jemma, not for the first time in her life, contemplates the benefits of experimenting with exorcisms.

“Okay,” Ward says. He squeezes her shoulder once more, then lets his hand fall. “But if you need anything…”

“Thank you,” she says again, and chooses not to examine how cold she feels at the sudden absence of his touch.

“Hey.” He gives her a somewhat awkward smile. “That’s what teams are for, right?”

“Right,” she says, helpless not to smile back.

Thomas scowls and aims a kick at Ward’s knee as he stands. “Wrong.”

“Night, Simmons,” Ward says.

“Ask him for comfort sex,” Jessy hisses.

“Goodnight, Ward,” Jemma says, determinedly ignoring the heat in her face.

“Eeeeew,” Thomas says, even as he trails Ward out of the lab. “Grant! ‘That’s what teams are for,’ really? That’s…”

“You know I’m right,” Jessy says over the fading echo of Thomas’ voice. “I’m always right.”

“Oh, you are  _not_ ,” Jemma snaps.

And if she finds herself touching her shoulder more than once as she gets ready for bed…

Well. She probably pulled a muscle today, that’s all.


	88. (turn the beauty) into the beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Beast** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.

“He’s already destroyed three punching bags.”

“Really.” Jemma tips her head, quietly regretting the tint to the one-way mirror, which diminishes her view of the play of muscles in Grant’s back as he demolishes yet another bag. “And how long has it been?”

Oxley grimaces. “Twenty minutes.”

“My,” she says, with a private smile, “He  _is_  upset, isn’t he?” She passes her tablet—and, after a moment of thought, her lanyard—to her assistant. “Perhaps a friendly face will help.”

“Ma’am, are you sure?” Oxley asks, trailing her anxiously across the room. “He might become violent.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Jemma tells him. She removes her lab coat and hangs it on a hook by the door, then—as he still appears slightly panicked—pats him on the shoulder. “Be sure to switch off all of the recording devices before you leave.”

“Leave?” Oxley echoes, confused.

She doesn’t bother to clarify, merely punches in the code to unlock the door and ducks into the gym. Grant hears her enter; she can tell by the way he goes utterly still, grabbing the bag by both sides to stop its swinging.

“You look angry,” she says, and he whirls to face her.

“You know I am,” he says. It’s an accusation. It makes her smile.

“How angry?” she asks.

She takes two steps toward him, and then, the next thing she knows, she’s being slammed back against the very mirror she was just watching him through. Pain flares in her back—and in her upper arms, by which he’s gripping her hard enough to bruise—and she hums happily, enjoying the jolt of arousal it sparks. It’s not so much the pain that does it as it is the  _force_  behind his maneuver, but, by his scowl, she doesn’t believe he appreciates it either way.

“So this is what it takes to convince you to be rough with me, then?” she asks with a teasing smile. “A little alien influence?”

“I should kill you, you bitch,” he growls, hands tightening around her arms. “You betrayed us—”

“I  _tricked_  you,” she interrupts. Grant’s face darkens even further. “That’s what really upsets you, isn’t it? One of the very best specialists SHIELD had to offer—best espionage scores since the Black Widow, even—and you didn’t even realize that your own girlfriend was playing you.”

“You nearly got us  _killed_ ,” he says.

“And doesn’t it make you furious?” she asks.

He pulls her away from the mirror, only to slam her against it again—hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. “This  _isn’t funny_.”

“No,” she agrees. She bites her lip, enjoying the way his gaze drops to her mouth in response. “It’s science.”

He drags his eyes back to hers with clear difficulty, but doesn’t speak.

“SHIELD is weak,” she says. “But you’re not, are you?” She rolls her shoulders back against the mirror—about as much movement as she can manage, with the way he’s holding her—and smiles as his eyes flicker towards the cleavage revealed as her shirt gapes a little further open. “A man of your skills and training would be a valuable asset to HYDRA.”

He scoffs.

“All that anger in you,” she continues, “All that  _strength_ —you know SHIELD would never let you use it. You’ll be forced to constantly restrain yourself, to watch every word and action lest you frighten them into imprisoning you. But HYDRA would be glad to let you—”

“HYDRA  _did_   _this to me_ ,” he snaps.

“ _I_  did this to you,” she corrects. “HYDRA captured you, but I’m the one who ordered that you be exposed— _re_ -exposed—to the berserker staff.”

His breathing is heavy—ragged, the way it only used to get on those nights she could coax him into letting go of a tiny bit of his control—those nights she could convince him to touch her like an actual woman instead of a fragile work of art.

She’s missed those nights—missed  _him_. It was scientific curiosity that moved her to add him to the berserker trials, the same as all of their other test subjects, but there’s a reason she’s personally interacting with him in a way she hasn’t any of the others.

Most of his predecessors have had to be put down after going insane. She doesn’t want that for Grant—but she doesn’t want him to control himself, either. She doesn’t want this to be a repeat of what happened on the Bus: a few days of gloriously free emotion followed by weeks of sulking and apologizing.

She wants him to embrace it. And if he won’t walk off that edge himself, she’s happy to shove him over it.

He’s nearing that point. She can see it in his eyes, feel it in his bruising grip.

“Are you going to kill me for it?” she asks. “Or maybe—” she arches into him, smiling at the way his breath catches. “—you’d rather fuck me.”

“Don’t,” he bites out.

“Don’t what?” she asks. “Tempt you?”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Jemma,” he warns. There’s a threat in his eyes, though whether of violence or something more enjoyable, it’s difficult to say.

Either way, it makes her heart race wonderfully.

“All that anger in you, all that rage—you’ve spent your whole life trying to deny it—to  _suppress_  it.” She drops her voice to a seductive murmur, watches his eyes slip shut. “Aren’t you tired of that? Wouldn’t you rather  _use_  it?”

“Jemma—”

“You want to hurt me, don’t you?” she prods. “I tricked you, turned against the team. Slept with other men.” His eyes open at the lie, and she grins to see the fire in them. “I’ve betrayed you in every possible way, and I’m not. Even. Sorry.”

“If you don’t stop talking,” he says, hands flexing around her arms, “You  _will_  be.”

“Are you going to make me apologize?” she asks. She looks up at him from under her eyelashes, wondering if he realizes he’s slipped his knee between her thighs—if he’s  _consciously_  applying so much lovely pressure. “Perhaps you’d like to hear me beg?”

“You’re gonna do more than just beg.”

He’s lost the  _if_ , she notices. Excellent.

“Embrace your anger, Grant,” she says. “I can take it.”

“Yeah.” One hand releases her arm to twist in her hair instead, grip tight enough to send bright shocks of pleasurable pain along her scalp. She’s helpless to keep from grinding down against the leg between hers, and it puts a dark smirk on Grant’s face. “You will.”

She has half a second to think  _yes_  and  _I’ve got him_ —and then his lips crash against hers in a punishing kiss, and she stops thinking altogether.


	89. you can love it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this quote](http://shineyma.tumblr.com/post/127194719127/you-can-love-a-monster-it-can-even-love-you-back), with thanks to the nonnie who directed me to it.

Jemma is shaking.

It’s odd that she’s so aware of it—certainly she has larger concerns at the moment—but, there it is. She’s trembling all over, head to toe, so much so that, were she the sort of person given to fanciful notions, she might say that her very bones were rattling.

She’s shaking and she can’t stop.

She can’t stop crying, either, but somehow that seems less important than the shaking. Perhaps because if only she could stop shaking, she could stand, and if she could stand, she could run. Running seems the thing to do right now.

But she can’t run when she can’t stop shaking.

…Where would she even go?

She’s not going to run. That’s ridiculous.

(Isn’t it?)

Either way, she needs to get herself together. She needs to stop shaking. Tears are permissible, but this—this complete  _breakdown_ —is not. She needs to collect herself, find her spine and  _steel_  it, before—

The water cuts off.

She’s still shaking.

This is absurd. It’s completely illogical. She’s dealt with this. She’s  _accepted_  this, the price of the choices she’s made—the cost of following her heart. This isn’t new, and it makes  _no sense_  that now, of all times, safe and secure inside her bedroom—

There’s a clear blood trail between the door to the rest of the penthouse and the bathroom door.

There was so much blood.

“Jemma,” Grant sighs, and she cringes.

She’s still shaking. She’s not meant to show this to him—she’s done her  _best_  not to show this to him—but here he is, fresh from the shower, and she’s  _still shaking_.

“Baby,” he says, and crosses the room to crouch in front of her. He’s only wearing his jeans, and his bare skin is warm and glistening from his shower. As close as he is to her, the heat fairly radiates off of him. She could sink into him, chase away the frost settling deep in her skin—but she doesn’t.

She’s never been less attracted to him.

“Fine,” she says. “I’m fine.”

The corners of his mouth turn down, and his eyes darken. She realizes too late that he didn’t actually ask after her—she’s been preemptively defensive, which is one of the major signs of deception. She’s given herself away.

Not that she’s ever managed to hide much of anything from him, anyway.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re shaking.”

“I  _know_.” It’s not easy to say; she has to choke it out around a rising sob. Grant sighs again, then shifts his weight to his knees.

He’s kneeling before her.

It’s nothing at all like supplication.

Neither is the way he cups her face in his hands. They’re warm—all of him is so warm—but they chill her to the bone nonetheless. He’s fresh out of the shower; his hands are clean.

But they’re far from spotless.

(There was  _so much blood_.)

“You can love a monster,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “It can even love you back.” His lips brush hers in a soft, sweet kiss. “That doesn’t change its nature.”

“I know,” she repeats, squeezing her eyes shut. “I  _know_.”

He’s come home dripping blood before. This isn’t new.

What’s new is that she  _knows_  to whom it belongs—knows that it was spilled in her name. Knows that she begged him not to do it, literally got  _down on her knees_  to plead with him, and still couldn’t stop him.

She’s always known the truth of him. But perhaps she’s never truly  _understood_  it until this moment.

He’s a monster, and she loves him anyway.

So what does that make her?


	90. looking good (and feeling fine)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the **Fashion** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer. 
> 
> Technically fits into the [did i fall asleep verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/300987), but should stand fine alone. Slightly nsfw.

Jemma can be surprisingly quiet when she wants to be, and Grant’s not listening for her, focused as he is on the report he’s receiving. So the first indication he gets of her presence is the way Markham and Ortilla’s eyes snap to the ceiling—simultaneously, and so quickly he can almost  _hear_  the accompanying cartoon side effect.

“Oh,” Jemma says, and Grant doesn’t need to turn around to know the expression she’s wearing; he can hear her not-at-all apologetic smile in her voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”

There’s a taunt in her tone, one that says the interruption is absolutely deliberate, and, wondering what’s put it there, he twists in his seat to face her.

Desire hits him like a punch to the gut.

She’s lounging in the bedroom doorway wearing nothing but a half-buttoned shirt—one of  _his_  half buttoned-shirts. Her hair is up, twisted into a very messy bun with enough loose tendrils hanging around her face that his fingers literally  _itch_  with the urge to touch.

Even from here, he can see the bruises and hickeys he left on her earlier, scattered along her neck and collarbone—and he remembers, with perfectly clarity, the location of the ones currently hidden by his shirt.

In summary, she’s pretty much walking temptation. He’s pretty sure he’s being provoked.

“Shall I assume it will be a while yet before you come back to bed, then?” she adds innocently.

“No,” he says, and the way her smile widens at the roughness in his voice only makes the itch in his fingers worse. “We’re done here.”

They’re actually far from done—that op in Australia needs his attention  _yesterday_ —but Markham and Ortilla are smart men. They’re already standing, gathering their respective tablets, eyes still pointedly averted from Jemma.

 _Very_  smart men.

“We’ll be downstairs, sir,” Markham informs the lamp next to the couch.

Ortilla nods his agreement. His capacity for discretion is nowhere near Markham’s, which is probably why his mouth is staying firmly shut.

“Keep working,” Grant orders. “I’ll be down…later.”

His men are gone without another three words between them, and only by reminding himself that Markham and Ortilla are two of his best and he  _really_  doesn’t wanna have to kill them does Grant manage to stay where he is until he hears the outer door shut.

Then he crosses the room in four strides, hands latching onto Jemma’s hips as he crowds her back into the bedroom.

“And what,” he asks, letting his fingers dig into the bruises he knows he left earlier solely to enjoy the way it makes her gasp and arch into him, “Do you think you’re doing?”

“I missed you when I woke up,” she says, still-innocent tone at odds with the hands already shoving at his shirt. “I was looking for you, that’s all.”

“No, you weren’t,” he says. Because he can’t help himself, he dips his head to kiss her—and because she deserves it, he makes it rough, a little punishing. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, not quite a whimper, but close, and he backs her further into the room. “You were giving my men a show.”

“Was I?” she asks.

She still sounds way too satisfied, so he kisses her again—and again—and again, drawing it out until she breaks away from him with a desperate whine, breathing ragged and loud in the silence of the bedroom.

“You were,” he says, a little breathless himself. They’ve reached the bed; he gives her a little shove—just enough to unbalance her—and she half-falls to, half-sits on the edge of it. “Rolling out of my bed wearing my shirt, looking like  _that_ …”

He lets himself trail off, because if he dwells too long on that image this won’t last nearly as long as he wants it to, and Jemma smiles.

“You don’t like it?” She looks up at him from under her lashes, playing with the collar of the shirt she’s wearing. “I thought it quite suited me.”

Does it ever. In fact…

“Unbutton it,” he orders, even as he strips off his t-shirt. “But leave it on.”

“Oh, my,” she says, a delighted smile spreading over her face. “Have we been inspired?”

Under her appreciative gaze, he makes quick work of the rest of his clothes—which is a relief, as his jeans were getting painfully tight—and then tugs her to her feet.

“Yeah,” he says. She hasn’t unbuttoned the shirt yet, so he does it for her, relishing the way her eyes flutter closed when he lets his hands wander a little. “You could say that.”

The bedroom is dark, but there’s enough light shining through the still-open door to the living room to see her by. She’s gorgeous, her perfect curves framed by his shirt—and next to the dark blue fabric, all of those marks he left earlier, stubble burn and fingerprints and hickies all, really stand out on her pale skin.

She’s gorgeous and she’s  _his_ , here wearing his shirt in his bedroom—in his  _building_ —after more than a _year_  apart.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says, because he’s learned it turns her on, hearing the kind of blunt promise his cover never would have made, “While you’re wearing my shirt.”

She smiles—a small, private thing—as she reaches up to tug the elastic out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and he has to kiss her again, though he keeps it quick this time.

“And then?” she asks, hands sliding up his chest.

Coming so close on the tail of the kiss, the touch—definitely  _not_  innocent, despite the relatively chaste placement—snaps the last of his control. It’s less than two seconds before he’s got her under him on the bed, her eyes wide with pleased surprise at the sudden movement.

“And  _then_ —” He slips a hand between them to brush his fingers against her. She must still be sensitive from earlier (and no surprise there), because the very light contact has her gasping, hips bucking up into his touch. “—I’m gonna tie you to the bed and do it again.”

She’s been here for twelve hours, and it’s gonna take a hell of a lot longer than that to erase all the times she walked away from him.

In the meantime, though, ensuring she  _can’t_  walk should ease the sting nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this drabble, this second collection is finished! Further prompt responses can be found in my new (and hopefully LAST, because this is getting ridiculous) collection, [a third collection (is charmingly excessive).](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4672241).

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I won't guarantee a fill, but if you want to send me a prompt, you're welcome to do so [here](http://shineyma.tumblr.com/ask).


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